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The Works of 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 


Fanshawe 

Grandfather's Chair 
Biographical Stories 



THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK 































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I 






F ANSH AWE 


A TALE 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

I \ 


WITH AN INTRODUCTION 

BY 

KATHARINE LEE BATES 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN WELLESLEY COLLEGE 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


-ps isro 
fez 


THE' LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two CoPtt* Received 

AUG. 20 1902 

COPYRIGHT entry 

CXvu^-. T|. /q OV 
CLASS CL XXo No. 

U* o 0 0 \ 

COPY 3. 


Copyright, 1902 , 

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 



/* 

ft 


'V 


V 

'V 

# 


CONTENTS. 


Biographical Sketch 
Introduction 

CHAPTER 

I. 


II. 


III. 

IV. 


VI. 

VII. 


VIII. 


IX. 


PAGE 

V 


X. 


ii 
18 
30 
44 
61 
68 
8 7 
102 
112 













BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


Nathaniel Hawthorne came of genuine Puritan 
stock. The original immigrant was William Hathorne, 
who arrived at Boston on the “ Arbella,” in 1630, at the 
age of twenty-three, and for half a century took a vigor¬ 
ous part in laying the foundations of New England. 
After a few years in Dorchester, he settled permanently 
in Salem, where, magistrate, major, legislator, he sent 
vagabonds to the stocks and Quakers to the lash, fought 
the Indians, explored the wilderness, preached, traded, 
and won a place in Massachusetts colonial history as 
first Speaker of the House of Representatives. 

His son, Colonel John Hathorne, merchant, attained 
the dignity of Judge of the Supreme Court, and left a 
sinister fame as a persecutor of witches. The legend 
goes that one of his victims invoked so potent a curse on 
him and all his race that the fortunes of the family 
forthwith began to wane. In his preface to The Scarlet 
Letter , Hawthorne speaks modestly of his Salem fore¬ 
fathers as seldom or never, “ after the first two genera¬ 
tions, performing any memorable deed, or so much as 
putting forward a claim to public notice. Gradually, 
they have sunk almost out of sight; as old houses, here 
and there about the streets, get covered half-way to the 
eaves by the accumulation of new soil. From father to 
son, for above a hundred years, they followed the sea; 
a gray-headed shipmaster, in each generation, retiring 
from the quarterdeck to the homestead, while a boy of 
fourteen took the hereditary place before the mast, con¬ 
fronting the salt spray and the gale, which had blustered 
against his sire and grandsire. The boy, also, in due 
time, passed from the forecastle to the cabin, spent a 
tempestuous manhood, and returned from his world- 
wanderings, to grow old, and die, and mingle his dust 
with the natal earth.” 


VI 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


But Nathaniel Hathorne, son of the Revolutionary 
privateer known in ballad as “Bold Daniel ” and himself 
a captain in the merchant marine, did not return. At 
the age of thirty-three he died in a foreign port, of yellow 
fever. His only son, Nathaniel Hawthorne, born July 4, 
1804, was destined to raise the family name to universal 
honor, yet by achievements which, he used to fancy, his 
ghostly ancestors, especially those first two “ stern and 
black-browed Puritans,” would have disowned. “ ‘What 
is he ? ’ murmurs one gray shadow of my forefathers to 
the other. ‘ A writer of story-books ! What kind of a 
business in life, — what mode of glorifying God, or 
being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation, 
— may that be ? Why, the degenerate fellow might as 
well have been a fiddler! ’ Such are the compliments 
bandied between my great-grandsires and myself, across 
the gulf of time! And yet, let them scorn me as they 
will, stray traits of their nature have intertwined them¬ 
selves with mine.” 

Hawthorne’s father is remembered as a grave and 
reticent man; but the mother, also of the ascetic Puritan 
strain, carried reserve to the point of morbidness. On 
the word of her husband’s death she became a lifelong 
recluse, and her children grew up like plants of some 
shadowed cloister-garden, their natural sensitiveness 
intensified by the atmosphere of her sequestered grief. 
But there were indulgent uncles and aunts; and at 
Raymond, in Maine, the ancestral home of Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne’s family, the boy had the freedom of the wilds. 
With an old fowling-piece over his shoulder, he would 
plunge into the trackless forest, or “skate until midnight, 
all alone, upon Sebago Lake, with the deep shadows of 
the icy hills on either hand.” A lameness, which passed 
with childhood, had early made him a reader. Pilgrim's 
Progress was one of his favorites, and the first book he 
bought with his own money was the Faery Queene. The 
Newgate Calendar figures on his list, with Shakespeare, 
Milton, and Rousseau. He was fitted for college at 
Salem, by a private tutor. At seventeen he was ready 
for Bowdoin and started out from Boston in the old- 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


vii 

fashioned stage-coach, — a slender, bright-eyed lad, with 
clustering dark hair, — to seek that somewhat primitive 
well of knowledge. He had Longfellow for a classmate 
and Franklin Pierce for a friend, but seems to have given 
his confidence most freely to Horatio Bridge, who pre¬ 
dicted great things for him. “ I know not whence your 
faith came,” wrote Plawthorne to Bridge, in the preface 
to The Snow Image , “ but, while we were lads together 
at a country college, — gathering blueberries in study 
hours, under those tall academic pines; or watching the 
great logs, as they tumbled along the current of the 
Androscoggin; or shooting pigeons and gray squirrels 
in the woods; or bat-fowling in the summer twilight ; 
or catching trouts in the shadowy little stream which, I 
suppose, is still wandering riverward through the forest, 
— though you and I will never cast a line in it again, — 
two idle lads, in short (as we need not fear to acknowl¬ 
edge now), doing a hundred things that the Faculty 
never heard of, or else it had been the worse for us, — 
still it was your prognostic of your friend’s destiny that 
he was to be a writer of fiction.” The future master of 
romance meanwhile ranked low in mathematics and 
metaphysics, and the required chapel declamations were 
as appalling to him as an after-dinner speech in later 
years. Latin was more to his mind, but he neglected 
all his academic tasks, even themes, and sowed a few 
Puritan wild oats at a secret and perilous card-table. 
He went through Commencement without embarrass¬ 
ment of college honors, and was not heard from for 
twelve years after. In 1837 a very slight stir in the 
literary world signalled the appearance of Tivice-Told 
Tales. 

During this interval Hawthorne had resided in Salem. 
In an upper-story room of the unvisited house where his 
mother and sisters led lives as silent as his own, he had 
brooded, written and burned, and written again, and 
bided his hour of fame. When he had been but a short 
time out of Bowdoin, he wrote a college novel, Fan- 
shawe, which he published at his own expense, and 
almost immediately withdrew from circulation. Another 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


viii 

'prentice volume, Seven Tales of my Native Land , met 
with such disheartening treatment from the publishers 
that the proud young author cast the whole budget into 
the fire. His occasional contributions to The Salem 
Gazette , The Token , The New England Magazine , were 
anonymous; and he lived in his haunted chamber, from 
twenty-one to thirty-three, “the most obscure man of 
letters in America.” His Bowdoin mates were well 
advanced on the trodden ways of the world, variously 
successful in politics, business, and the professions; 
Longfellow had won a Harvard chair; but Hawthorne 
had nothing to show for his hidden life save the first 
series of Twice-Told Tales. 

This volume, though cordially greeted by Longfellow 
in the North American Review , made but slight im¬ 
pression on the public. It was five years before Haw¬ 
thorne followed it up by the second series, and four 
years more before he published Mosses from an Old 
Manse. Meanwhile he had issued, in 1841, three small 
books of colonial stories for children, Grandfathers 
Chair , Famous Old People , and Liberty Tree , with 
Last Words of Grandfather's Chair. The year 1842 
witnessed the publication of Biographical Stories for 
Children. It was the year of the second series of 
Twice-Told Tales , and, most important of all, the year 
of Hawthorne’s marriage. 

His betrothal to Sophia Peabody, an invalid daughter 
of a neighboring family, had come about through her 
sister’s interest in his writings, spurring . him to the 
unwonted achievement of a call. During the protracted 
engagement the bride had recovered health, and Haw¬ 
thorne’s long habit of solitude had been broken. It was 
high time, for he had learned his art and needed now 
the stimulus of life. That lonely existence in a locked 
chamber, with the tray of food placed outside the door, 
and the day’s long dreaming and writing relieved only 
by an evening walk upon the beach, had done its work. 
He who in boyhood had avowed that he did “ not want 
to be a doctor and live by men’s diseases, nor a minister 
to live by their sins, nor a lawyer and live by their 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


IX 


quarrels,” had become, as he hoped, an author, to live 
by men’s love of the beautiful. 

As the prospect of marriage grew definite, Hawthorne 
had to face the practical question of gaining a livelihood. 
All his writing had brought him only a few hundred 
dollars, but Van Buren’s administration prided itself on 
its care for literary Democrats, and a post in the Boston 
Custom House, under Bancroft the historian, was 
offered to Hawthorne the romancer. For the two 
years 1839-1840 the new weigher and gauger endured 
that “very grievous thraldom,” and when, at the next 
Presidential election, the Whigs turned him out of office, 
he had saved from his salary of twelve hundred a year 
one thousand dollars, which he promptly sunk in the 
Brook Farm experiment. Casting in his lot with Rip¬ 
ley’s enthusiasts, Hawthorne entered upon the April 
ploughing and planting with a humorous zest, hoping 
soon to marry and bring his wife to share that “ Age of 
Reason in a patty-pan,” as Curtis called it, but by 
another spring the “witty potato patches” and “spar¬ 
kling cornfields” had lost their charm. He was thirty- 
eight years old, with little sign of worldly wealth, when 
he brought the happiest of brides to Concord, where 
they added another lustre to the memories of the Old 
Manse. “ Nobody but we ever knew what it is to be 
married,” wrote the new Adam to the new Eve, and out 
of the heart of his joy he looked back upon that dreary 
chamber in Salem with more than content. “ I am dis¬ 
posed to thank God for the gloom and chill of my early 
life, in the hope that my share of adversity came then, 
when I bore it alone.” But except with his wife he still 
kept his dark mantle of reserve folded close about him. 
Curtis, who had a blithe young share in all the phases 
of Transcendentalism, gives a roguish account of a 
representative Concord gathering in Emerson’s study, 
where the philosophers talked Orphic secrets and ate 
russet apples, while “ Hawthorne, a statue of night and 
silence, sat a little removed, under a portrait of Dante, 
gazing imperturbably upon the group.” 

Plain fare and rickety furniture count for little in 


X 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


Eden, but debts weigh upon an upright soul, and when 
another Democratic administration came in, Hawthorne 
went resignedly back to Salem to barter “ the delicate 
harvest of fancy and sensibility” for “a pittance of the 
public gold.” Three years he served in the Custom 
House, his imagination all the while “a tarnished 
mirror,” and when the political pendulum swung the 
Whigs again into office, they did better than they meant 
in turning Hawthorne out. The discharged surveyor of 
customs wrote The Scarlet Letter , which, published in 
1850, called forth an instantaneous acclaim that was not 
to die away. At forty-six, after twenty-five years of 
striving, Hawthorne had won fame. In this brief 
romance all his past — the stern heredity and youthful 
dream, the lonely devotion to his art, and the realiza¬ 
tion, through love, of the vital forces of life — broke 
into flower, and a wonderful, blood-red flower it was. 
That most friendly of publishers, James T. Fields, clam¬ 
ored for a second manuscript, and obtained The Ho 7 ise 
of the Seven Gables. This sweeter and less powerful 
romance, written in the red cottage at Lenox with the 
buoyancy born of unaccustomed praise, eased the 
author’s mind of the old witch-curse pronounced upon 
his persecuting ancestor, Judge Hathorne. The year 
of The House of the Seven Gables , 1851, saw, too, the 
writing of A Wonder Book and the publication of The 
Snow Image. In the least mystical, and hence the least 
characteristic of his long stories, The Blithedale Romance, 
written the following year at West Newton, Hawthorne 
drew upon his memories of Brook Farm. 

The election to the presidency of Hawthorne’s college 
comrade, Franklin Pierce, for whom he had been per¬ 
suaded to write a campaign biography, brought upon 
the sensitive romancer, once again, the blight of public 
office. In the “stifled chamber” of the American con¬ 
sulate at Liverpool he “spent wearily a considerable 
portion of more than four good years.” He supported 
his family and paid his debts, but no adequate literary 
result came from this English residence. Our Old Home 
(1863), made up from his journals, was, as he said, “not 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 


xi 


a good or a weighty book.” After the publication of 
Tanglewood Tales , in 1853, Hawthorne was silent until 
i860, when Italy spoke through him in The Marble 
Faun. The story, as he at first conceived it, was to 
have “all sorts of fun and pathos in it,” but when he 
came to “ close grips ” with his romance, it took on, 
amid supreme beauty of detail, the true Hawthornesque 
semblance of tragic mystery. In The Marble Faun his 
pure and tranquil grace of style is at its best. 

Just before the Civil War Hawthorne came home,— 
a woeful time for any patriot, but most for one of divided 
sympathies. In that strong sketch, Septimius Felton i 
which, like The Dolliver Romance and Doctor Grim- 
shawe’s Secret , he was never to fill out, he dwells upon 
the wretched sense of being “ ajar with the human race ” 
which besets “a man of brooding thought” in any 
violent crisis. He took up his abode at The Wayside, 
in Concord, and while insidious disease was stealing 
upon his system, strove to fashion this new “ Romance 
of Immortality.” The unfinished manuscript was laid 
upon his coffin. 

Hawthorne died on May 19th, 1864. His body lies in 
Sleepy Hollow, Concord. Of his three children, Una, 
the eldest, a sensitive and saintly woman, died in 1877; 
Julian Hawthorne is well known in the world of letters; 
Mrs. Rose Hawthorne Lathrop, now Mother Mary 
Alphonsa, has given herself to works of mercy. The 
literary tradition bids fair to be continued in the third 
generation by Julian Hawthorne’s daughter, Hildegarde 
Hawthorne. 


Katharine Lee Bates. 




HAWTHORNE’S BIRTH PLACE - SALEM. 

























































































































































































































































INTRODUCTION. 


The reason for Hawthorne’s prompt condemnation of 
this, his first printed book, is not known. There may 
have been some sting of a forgotten review or even some 
domestic criticism. His elder sister, Elizabeth, whose 
literary ability Hawthorne held in high respect, seems 
to have recognized the lack of distinction in Fanshawe. 
In the absence of evidence, however, it is natural to sup¬ 
pose that the crudity of his work became more apparent 
to the young author in print than it had been in manu¬ 
script. At all events, Fanshawe was scarcely published 
when Hawthorne did his best to blot it out of existence 
and out of memory. Julian Hawthorne’s biography of 
his parents prints a letter from his Aunt Elizabeth 
touching on this subject. Speaking of Hawthorne, she 
writes: — 

“ It was while in college that he formed the design of 
becoming an author by profession. In a letter to me 
he says that he had ‘made progress on my novel.’ I 
have already told you that he wrote some tales to be 
called Seven Tales of my Native Land , with the motto 
from Wordsworth, ‘We are Seven.’ I read them and 
liked them. I think they were better than Fanshawe. 
Mr. Goodrich (Peter Parley) told him afterward that he 
thought Fanshawe would have brought him some profit 
if it had had an enterprising publisher. These Seven 
Tales he attempted to publish; but one publisher, after 
keeping them a long time, returned them with the 
acknowledgment that he had not read them. It was 
the summer of 1825 that he showed them to me. One 
was a tale of witchcraft, — Alice Doane , I believe it was 
called; and another was Susan Gray. There was much 
more of his peculiar genius in them than in Fanshawe. 
I recollect that he said, when he was still in hopes to 

xiii 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION. 


publish them, that he would write a story which would 
make a smaller book, and get it published immediately, 
if possible, before the arrangements for bringing out the 
Tales were completed. So he wrote Fanshawe and 
published it at his own expense, paying one hundred 
dollars for that purpose. There were a few copies sold, 
and he gave me one; but afterward he took possession 
of it and no doubt burned it. We were enjoined to 
keep the authorship a profound secret, and of course 
we did, with one or two exceptions; for we were in 
those days almost absolutely obedient to him. I do 
not quite approve of either obedience or concealment. 
Your father kept his very existence a secret, as far as 
possible.” 

Horatio Bridge, college friend though he was, did not 
have Hawthorne’s confidence as to this college novel. 
The account given in Bridge’s Personal Recollections 
of Nathaniel Hawthorne fails to mention through what 
leak the dark secret trickled out to him. 

“ It is well known that, soon after graduating, he pre¬ 
pared for the press a little volume of tales, entitled 
Seven Tales of my Native Land. The publisher who 
engaged to bring out the book was so dilatory that at 
last Hawthorne, becoming impatient and dissatisfied 
with the excuses given, peremptorily demanded the 
return of the manuscript. The publisher, aroused to a 
sense of his duty and ashamed of his broken promises, 
apologized and offered to proceed with the work at 
once; but Hawthorne was inexorable; and though, as 
he wrote me at the time, he was conscious of having 
been too harsh in his censures, he would not recede, and 
he burned the manuscript, in a mood half savage, half 
despairing. As I expressed to him, — perhaps too 
strongly, — my regret for this proceeding, he did not, 
when Fanshawe was published, confide to me the fact. 
Hearing, though, of the publication, I procured a copy, 
and subsequently mentioned it to Hawthorne. He had 
meantime become dissatisfied with the book, and he 
called in and destroyed all the copies he could reach. 
At his request I burned my copy, and we never alluded 


INTRODUCTION. 


xv 


to Fanshawe afterward. It was at this time, I think, 
that he became utterly disheartened, and, though con¬ 
scious of possessing more than ordinary literary talent, 
he almost abandoned all expectation of success as an 
author.” 

There remains the personal testimony of James T. 
Fields ( Hawthorne , pp. 14-15): — 

“In 1828 Hawthorne published a short anonymous 
romance called Fanshawe. I once asked him about this 
disowned publication, and he spoke of it with great dis¬ 
gust, and afterward he thus referred to the subject in a 
letter written to me in 1851: ‘You make an inquiry 
about some supposed former publication of mine. I 
cannot be sworn to make correct answers as to all the 
literary or other follies of my nonage; and I earnestly 
recommend you not to brush away the dust that may 
have gathered over them. Whatever might do me 
credit you may be pretty sure I should be ready enough 
to bring forward. Anything else it is our mutual 
interest to conceal; and so far from assisting your 
researches in that direction, I especially enjoin it on 
you, my dear friend, not to read any unacknowledged 
page that you may suppose to be mine/ ” 

But who had let the cat out of the bag ? The pub¬ 
lishers ? One, at least, should be held guiltless, for in 
the Boston Public Library copy, presented by Mr. Nahum 
Capen, is pasted a letter from him declaring that the 
authorship of the book had been made known without 
his agency. The following note is added by Mr. J. 
Winsor, then superintendent: “Oct. 10, *71, Mr. Capen 
stated to me orally that the edition was 1000 copies, and 
that a portion of it was burned in his store on Washing¬ 
ton St. It was kindly received, as he says, but made 
no stir. He does not know of another copy in existence.” 

A pencil note beneath, by Mr. L. Swift, states: 
“ Mr. C. E. Norton, of Cambridge, owns a copy.” 

A cutting from the Boston Advertiser (no date), 
fastened by Mr. Capen into the Boston Library copy, 
asserts, “ A note from a correspondent in Salem 
assures us that there are at least two copies in existence 


XVI. 


INTRODUCTION. 


of Hawthorne’s juvenile romance,” but does not locate 
them. 

Miss Rebecca Manning, Hawthorne’s cousin, holds 
one of the Salem copies. She states, in regard to a 
second : “ Many years ago, Mr. David Roberts of Salem, 
an old friend of Hawthorne, gave his copy to Una Haw¬ 
thorne.” Mrs. Fields treasures her husband’s copy. 
Mr. G. M. Williamson, a Hawthorne collector and 
bibliographer, owns a copy, five more New York copies 
are reported, and three have been sold at New York 
auctions since 1894, the last bringing a price of $410. 

This rare book is a duodecimo of 141 pages, bound in 
buff boards and backed with russet paper. The title- 
page reads: — 

FANSHAWE, 

A TALE. 

“ Wilt thou go with me ? ” — Southey . 

BOSTON: 

Marsh & Capen, 362 Washington Street. 

Press of Putnam and Hunt. 

1828. 

Now that Hawthorne has so unmistakably withdrawn 
the invitation to “go with” him, one feels reluctant to 
discuss Fanshciwe; yet it may be legitimate to ask how 
closely this college novel reflects the college that Haw¬ 
thorne knew. 

The charter of Bowdoin dates from 1794. In Sep¬ 
tember, 1802, a president and a professor of ancient 
languages were inaugurated in the pine grove. The 
next day eight students, all but two of them under 
sixteen, were admitted, and college work began in 
Massachusetts Hall. The president taught mathematics, 
and this study, with Latin and Greek, constituted the 
curriculum. President McKeen lived to preside at only 
one Commencement, when diplomas were handed to 
seven graduates. It was a greater occasion than a 
muster, and people flocked to Brunswick by stage 


INTRODUCTION. 


xvn 


and coaster. Guests came even from Boston in their 
private chaises. There was a September gale at the 
time; President McKeen presided under a restive 
umbrella in the unroofed chapel, and General Knox’s 
fine equipage was upset in returning through the stormy 
night from the Commencement ball, rolling its gay ladies 
and cavaliers down a miry bank. 

The second president, also a Dartmouth graduate, 
was an example of the early ascetic type of the New 
England minister. Zealously evangelical, President 
Appleton established Sunday evening “Bible study” and 
Thursday afternoon “theological lectures.” Determined 
to master all the subjects taught in his college, he 
allowed himself, for years, but four hours of the twenty- 
four for sleep. The Bowdoin of his day grew to be a 
college of five teachers and fifty students. Thirteen 
classes, ranging in numbers from three (1807) to nine¬ 
teen (1818) were graduated during his presidency. 
Commencement was still a grand holiday for all the 
country round. Booths for the sale of pie, gingerbread, 
cider, and root beer dotted the campus; the graduates 
wore silk gowns over their figured waistcoats and knee- 
breeches, and the Faculty added to this costume the 
Oxford cap. 

The premature death of President Appleton occurred 
in 1819, the year before Maine was made an independent 
state. The third president was a Harvard man of some 
literary reputation, who had married the wealthy daughter 
of a Dartmouth president. Representing, therefore, both 
culture and social position, President Allen and his lady 
entered Brunswick in their own “coach and pair.” His 
first work was the establishment of the Medical School. 
The Commencement of 1821 was the most magnificent 
ever known. The governor of the new state attended 
with his staff and an escort of cavalry. Maine men 
waxed enthusiastic over their own seat of learning, and 
the entering class was the largest in the history of the 
institution. This was Hawthorne’s class, which num¬ 
bered thirty-eight at graduation. 

Bowdoin was still, however, a plain country college. 


xviii INTRODUCTION. 

Tuition was twenty-four dollars a year; room-rent, ten; 
the highest charge for table-board was two dollars a 
week. Hawthorne’s bill for the term ending May 21, 
1824, amounted to $19.62, of which $2.36 is made up 
of fines, usually by way of discipline. One item is $0.20 
for neglect of theme. President Allen, though his formal 
manners made him unpopular with the students, had 
gathered an able faculty. Natural science, philosophy, 
and rhetoric were already added to the curriculum. It 
was not until after Hawthorne’s graduation that the 
modern language professorship was established, since 
known, from its first incumbent, as the Longfellow pro¬ 
fessorship. In 1824 great interest was aroused by the 
novelty introduced by a young mathematical tutor,— 
the use of the blackboard in teaching algebra. It was the 
sophomore class that was thus enabled to lay aside the 
historic slate; and the junior class, incredible though it 
seems, petitioned to repeat the course as extra work 
under these enchanting new conditions. 

But this Down-East Bowdoin, with its study-bells, its 
literal recitations, its fines of fifty cents for card-playing 
and twenty-five cents for a Sabbath stroll, turned out, 
year by year, men of mark. In the class of 1824 were 
Franklin Pierce and Calvin Ellis Stowe. The roll of 
1825 numbers sixteen lawyers, several of whom attained 
political eminence, seven clergymen, two of whom, John 
S. C. Abbott and Dr. George B. Cheever, were also 
authors, six physicians, two merchants, two publishers 
and booksellers, one banker, one teacher, Longfellow, 
Hawthorne, and one other, an ardent student, holding 
second rank in the class, who died on the eve of gradu¬ 
ation. 

This youth, Gorham Deane, who, like President Apple- 
ton, cut his sleeping hours down to four in his passion 
for study, and stooped over his books until consumption 
ravaged the compressed chest, may have suggested the 
figure of Fanshawe. Lathrop is doubtless right in sur¬ 
mising that in the last paragraphs of the second chapter 
the lonely young genius of Salem was revealing himself. 
But Hawthorne’s college career had little in common 


INTRODUCTION. 


xix 


with Fanshawe’s. Hawthorne's graduating rank was 
eighteen, a trifle above the middle of the class; he had, 
it is true, the name of being poetical, — though he de¬ 
clined, in 1840, to contribute to a volume called The 
Bowdoin Poets , — and he belonged to the Athenaeum 
Society; but he loved to idle in the pine forest, where a 
stream, now nearly dried up, became known as Hawthorne 
Brook; his sensibilities did not forbid his shooting the 
wood-pigeons that haunted the blueberry pastures and 
the stubbles, nor the wild-fowl of river and coast; 
he even liked to bear a quiet part in the student con¬ 
vivialities at Ward’s tavern. Yet the name Fanshawe is 
remotely suggestive of Hawthorne, and the author’s 
sympathy is evidently more with this pallid hero than 
with the handsome, vigorous Edward Walcott from the 
fashionable seaport. 

We have no right to ask for contemporary local color 
in Hawthorne’s college novel. By a stretch of chronol¬ 
ogy, he puts Harley some eighty years back from the 
Bowdoin of 1825. For realistic pictures of Bowdoin life 
a few years later, one can turn to Dr. Hamlin’s (class 
of ’34) My Life and Times , or to Elijah Kellogg’s (class 
of ’40) Whispering Pines series. But even of an antique 
Bowdoin, Harley College, except for the surrounding 
landscape, is hardly suggestive. Dr. Melmoth does not 
seem to be drawn from any one of the three presidents, 
but is, rather, a conventional type of the gentle, un¬ 
worldly, wool-gathering old scholar. 

Lathrop finds in the story “ a faint reflection ” of Scott, 
but certainly the influence of Godwin, whose gloomy, 
passionate heroes had been familiar to Hawthorne from 
boyhood, is no less marked. Hawthorne does not con¬ 
fuse hero with villain, but he gives his villain traits 
familiar to all who are versed in the Brockden Brown 
school of romance. Ellen is such a softly shining image 
of girlhood as might well haunt the reveries of young 
collegians. The story has spirited and impressive pas¬ 
sages, and every now and then, as in the rocks “ that 
thrust their huge gray heads from the ground,” or that 
gleeful flow of talk “ such as one might expect from a 


XX 


INTRODUCTION. 


bottle of champagne endowed by a fairy with the gift 
of speech,” we feel the exquisite Hawthorne touch. As 
a story, however, Fcinshawe falls between two stools. 
The frank actualities of college life are hardly repro¬ 
duced, while the illusion of an ideal world fails to pos¬ 
sess the reader. 


Katharine Lee Bates. 


FANSHAWE 


CHAPTER I. 

Our court shall be a little academy 

Shakspeare. 

In an ancient, though not very populous settlement, in 
a retired corner of one of the New-England States, 
arise the walls of a seminary of learning, which, for the 
convenience of a name, shall be entitled ‘ Harley Col¬ 
lege.’ This institution, though the number of its years 
is inconsiderable, compared with the hoar antiquity of 
its European sisters, is not without some claims to rever¬ 
ence on the score of age ; for an almost countless multi¬ 
tude of rivals, by many of which its reputation has been 
eclipsed, have sprung up since its foundation. At no 
time, indeed, during an existence of nearly a century, 
has it acquired a very extensive fame, and circum¬ 
stances, which need not be particularized, have of late 
years involved it in a deeper obscurity. There are now 
few candidates for the degrees that the college is author¬ 
ized to bestow. On two of its annual ‘ Commencement 
Days,’ there has been a total deficiency of Baccalaure¬ 
ates ; and the lawyers and divines, on whom Doctorates 
in their respective professions are gratuitously inflicted, 
are not accustomed to consider the distinction as an 
honor. Yet the sons of this seminary have always 
maintained their full share of reputation, in whatever 
paths of life they trod. Few of them, perhaps, have 
been deep and finished scholars; but the College has 
supplied — what the emergencies of the country de¬ 
manded — a set of men more useful in its present state, 
and whose deficiency in theoretical knowledge has not 
been found to imply a want of practical ability. 


2 


FANSHAWE. 


The local situation of the College, so far secluded 
from the sight and sound of the busy world, is peculiarly 
favorable to the moral, if not to the literary habits of its 
students; and this advantage probably caused the found¬ 
ers to overlook the inconveniences that were inseparably 
connected with it. The humble edifices rear themselves 
almost at the farthest extremity of a narrow vale, which, 
winding through a long extent of hill-country, is well- 
nigh as inaccessible, except at one point, as the Happy 
Valley of Abyssinia. A stream, that farther on becomes 
a considerable river, takes its rise at a short distance 
above the College, and affords, along its wood-fringed 
banks, many shady retreats, where even study is pleas¬ 
ant, and idleness delicious. The neighborhood of the 
institution is not quite a solitude, though the few habi¬ 
tations scarcely constitute a village. These consist prin¬ 
cipally of farm-houses,—of rather an ancient date, for the 
settlement is much older than the college,— and of a 
little inn, which, even in that secluded spot, does not 
fail of a moderate support. Other dwellings are scat¬ 
tered up and down the valley; but the difficulties of 
the soil will long avert the evils of a too dense popula¬ 
tion. The character of the inhabitants does not seem 
— as there was perhaps room to anticipate — to be in 
any degree influenced by the atmosphere of Harley 
College. They are a set of rough and hardy yeomen, 
much inferior, as respects refinement, to the correspond¬ 
ing classes in most other parts of our country. This is 
the more remarkable, as there is scarcely a family in the 
vicinity that has not provided, for at least one of its 
sons, the advantages of a ‘liberal education.’ 

Having thus described the present state of Harley 
College, we must proceed to speak of it as it existed 
about eighty years since, when its foundation was recent 
and its prospects flattering. At the head of the institu¬ 
tion, at this period, was a learned and orthodox Divine, 
whose fame was in all the churches. He was the author 
of several works which evinced much erudition and depth 
of research; and the public perhaps thought the more 
highly of his abilities from a singularity in the purposes 


FANSHAWE. 


3 


to which he applied them, that added much to the curi¬ 
osity of his labors, though little to their usefulness. But 
however fanciful might be his private pursuits, Doctor 
Melmoth, it was universally allowed, was diligent and 
successful in the arts of instruction. The young‘men 
of his charge prospered beneath his eye, and regarded 
him with an affection, that was strengthened by the 
little foibles which occasionally excited their ridicule. 
The president was assisted in the discharge of his duties 
by two inferior officers, chosen from the Alumni of the 
college, who, while they imparted to others the knowl¬ 
edge they had already imbibed, pursued the study of 
Divinity under the direction of their principal. Under 
such auspices the institution grew and flourished. Hav¬ 
ing at that time but two rivals in the country (neither of 
them within a considerable distance) it became the gen¬ 
eral resort of the youth of the province in which it was 
situated. For several years in succession, its students 
amounted to nearly fifty, — a number which, relatively 
to the circumstances of the country, was very consid¬ 
erable. 

From the exterior of the Collegians, an accurate ob¬ 
server might pretty safely judge how long they had been 
inmates of those classic walls. The brown cheeks and 
the rustic dress of some would inform him that they had 
but recently left the plough, to labor in a not less toil¬ 
some field ; the grave look and the intermingling of gar¬ 
ments of a more classic cut, would distinguish those who 
had begun to acquire the polish of their new residence; — 
and the air of superiority, the paler cheek, the less 
robust form, the spectacles of green, and the dress in 
general of threadbare black, would designate the highest 
class, who were understood to have acquired nearly all 
the science their Alma Mater could bestow, and to be 
on the point of assuming their stations in the world. 
There were, it is true, exceptions to this general descrip¬ 
tion. A few young men had found their way hither 
from the distant seaports; and these were the models 
of fashion to their rustic companions, over whom they 
asserted a superiority in exterior accomplishments, which 


4 


FANSHAWE. 


the fresh though unpolished intellect of the sons of the 
forest denied them in their literary competitions. A 
third class, differing widely from both the former, con¬ 
sisted of a few young descendants of the aborigines, to 
whom an impracticable philanthropy was endeavoring 
to impart the benefits of civilization. 

If this institution did not offer all the advantages of 
elder and prouder seminaries, its deficiencies were com¬ 
pensated to its students by the inculcation of regular 
habits, and of a deep and awful sense of religion, which 
seldom deserted them in their course through life. The 
mild and gentle rule of Doctor Melmoth, like that of a 
father over his children, was more destructive to vice 
than a sterner sway; and though youth is never without 
its follies, they have seldom been more harmless than 
they were here. The students, indeed, ignorant of their 
own bliss, sometimes wished to hasten the time of their 
entrance on the business of life ; but they found, in after 
years, that many of their happiest remembrances,— 
many of the scenes which they would with least reluc¬ 
tance live over again, — referred to the seat of their 
early studies. The exceptions to this remark were 
chiefly those whose vices had drawn down, even from 
that paternal government, a weighty retribution. 

Doctor Melmoth, at the time when he is to be intro¬ 
duced to the reader, had borne the matrimonial yoke 
(and in his case it was no light burthen) nearly twenty 
years. The blessing of children, however, had been 
denied him, — a circumstance which he was acustomed 
to consider as one of the sorest trials that chequered his 
pathway; for he was a man of a kind and affectionate 
heart, that was continually seeking objects to rest itself 
upon. He was inclined to believe, also, that a common 
offspring would have exerted a meliorating influence on 
the temper of Mrs. Melmoth, the character of whose 
domestic government often compelled him to call to mind 
such portions of the wisdom of antiquity, as relate to 
the proper endurance of the shrewishness of woman. 
But domestic comforts, as well as comforts of every 
other kind, have their draw-backs; and so long as the 


FANSHAWE. 


5 


balance is on the side of happiness, a wise man will not 
murmur. Such was the opinion of Doctor Melmoth; 
and with a little aid from philosophy and more from 
religion, he journeyed on contentedly through life. 
When the storm was loud by the parlor hearth, he had 
always a sure and quiet retreat in his study, and there, 
in his deep though not always useful labors, he soon 
forgot whatever of disagreeable nature pertained to his 
situation. This small and dark apartment was the only 
portion of the house, to which, since one firmly repelled 
invasion, Mrs. Melmoth’s omnipotence did not extend. 
Here (to reverse the words of Queen Elizabeth) there 
was ‘ but one Master and no Mistress ’; and that man 
has little right to complain who possesses so much as 
one corner in the world, where he may be happy or 
miserable, as best suits him. In his study, then, the 
Doctor was accustomed to spend most of the hours that 
were unoccupied by the duties of his station. The flight 
of time was here as swift as the wind, and noiseless as 
the snow-flake; and it was a sure proof of real happi¬ 
ness, that night often came upon the student, before he 
knew it was mid-day. 

Doctor Melmoth was wearing towards age, having 
lived nearly sixty years, when he was called upon to 
assume a character, to which he had as yet been a 
stranger. He had possessed, in his youth, a very dear 
friend, with whom his education had associated him, and 
who, in his early manhood, had been his chief intimate. 
Circumstances, however, had separated them for nearly 
thirty years, half of which had been spent by his friend, 
who was engaged in mercantile pursuits, in a foreign 
country. The Doctor had nevertheless retained a warm 
interest in the welfare of his old associate, though the 
different nature of their thoughts and occupations had 
prevented them from corresponding. After a silence of 
so long continuance, therefore, he was surprised by the 
receipt of a letter from his friend, containing a request 
of a most unexpected nature. 

Mr. Langton had married rather late in life, and his 
wedded bliss had been but of short continuance. Cer- 


6 


FANSHAWE. 


tain misfortunes in trade, when he was a Benedict of 
three years standing, had deprived him of a large por¬ 
tion of his property, and compelled him, in order to save 
the remainder, to leave his own country for what he 
hoped would be but a brief residence in another. But, 
though he was successful in the immediate objects of 
his voyage, circumstances occurred to lengthen his stay 
far beyond the period which he had assigned to it. It 
was difficult so to arrange his extensive concerns, that they 
could be safely trusted to the management of others; 
and when this was effected, there was another not less 
powerful obstacle to his return. His affairs, under his 
own inspection, were so prosperous, and his gains so 
considerable, that, in the words of the old ballad, ‘ He 
set his heart to gather gold ’; and to this absorbing pas¬ 
sion he sacrificed his domestic happiness. The death 
of his wife, about four years after his departure, un¬ 
doubtedly contributed to give him a sort of dread of 
returning, which it required a strong effort to overcome. 
The welfare of his only child he knew would be little 
affected by this event; for she was under the protection 
of his sister, of whose tenderness he was well assured. 
But, after a few more years, this sister, also, was taken 
away by death; and then the father felt that duty im¬ 
peratively called upon him to return. He realized, on a 
sudden, how much of life he had thrown away in the 
acquisition of what is only valuable as it contributes to 
the happiness of life, and how short a time was left him 
for life’s true enjoyments. Still, however, his mercan¬ 
tile habits were too deeply seated to allow him to haz¬ 
ard his present prosperity by any hasty measures ; nor 
was Mr. Langton, though capable of strong affections, 
naturally liable to manifest them violently. It was 
probable, therefore, that many months might yet elapse, 
before he would again tread the shores of his native 
country. 

But the distant relative, in whose family, since the 
death of her aunt, Ellen Langton had remained, had 
been long at variance with her father, and had unwill¬ 
ingly assumed the office of her protector. Mr. Lang- 


FANSHAWE. 


7 


ton’s request, therefore, to Doctor Melmoth, was, that 
his ancient friend (one of the few friends that time had 
left him) would be as a father to his daughter, till he 
could himself relieve him of the charge. 

The Doctor, after perusing the epistle of his friend, 
lost no time in laying it before Mrs. Melmoth, though 
this was, in truth, one of the very few occasions on 
which he had determined that his will should be abso¬ 
lute law. The lady was quick to perceive the firmness 
of his purpose; and would not (even had she been par¬ 
ticularly averse to the proposed measure) hazard her 
usual authority by a fruitless opposition. But, by long 
disuse, she had lost the power of consenting graciously 
to any wish of her husband’s. 

‘ I see your heart is set upon this matter,’ she ob¬ 
served ; 4 and, in truth, I fear we cannot decently refuse 
Mr. Langton’s request. I see little good of such a 
friend, Doctor, who never lets one know he is alive, till 
he has a favor to ask.’ 

‘ Nay, but I have received much good at his hand,’ 
replied Doctor Melmoth ; * and if he asked more of me, 
it should be done with a willing heart. I remember in 
my youth, when my worldly goods were few and ill- 
managed (I was a bachelor, then, dearest Sarah, with 
none to look after my household) how many times I 
have been beholden to him. And see, —in his letter he 
speaks of presents, of the produce of the country, which 
he has sent both to you and me.’ 

‘ If the girl were country-bred,’ continued the lady, 
‘we might give her house-room, and no harm done. 
Nay, she might even be a help to me; for Esther, our 
maid-servant, leaves us at the month’s end. But I 
warrant she knows as little of household matters as you 
do yourself, Doctor.’ 

‘ My friend’s sister was well grounded in the ‘ re fa- 
miliari,’ ’ answered her husband; ‘ and doubtless she 
hath imparted somewhat of her skill to this damsel. 
Besides, the child is of tender years, and will profit 
much by your instruction and mine.’ 

‘ The child is eighteen years of age, Doctor,’ observed 


8 


FANSHAWE. 


Mrs. Melmoth, ‘ and she has cause to be thankful that 
she will have better instruction than yours.’ 

This was a proposition that Doctor Melmoth did not 
choose to dispute; though he perhaps thought, that his 
long and successful experience in the education of the 
other sex might make him an able coadjutor to his wife, 
in the care of Ellen Langton. He determined to jour¬ 
ney in person to the seaport, where his young charge 
resided, leaving the concerns of Harley College to the 
direction of the two tutors. Mrs. Melmoth, who, indeed 
anticipated with pleasure the arrival of a new subject to 
her authority, threw no difficulties in the way of his 
intention. To do her justice, her preparations for his 
journey, and the minute instructions with which she 
favored him, were such as only a woman’s true affection 
could have suggested. The traveller met with no in¬ 
cidents important to this tale; and, after an absence of 
about a fortnight, he and Ellen Langton alighted from 
their steeds (for on horseback had the journey been 
performed) in safety at his own door. 

If pen could give an adequate idea of Ellen Langton’s 
loveliness, it would achieve what pencil (the pencils at 
least, of the Colonial artists who attempted it) never 
could; for, though the dark eyes might be painted, the 
pure and pleasant thoughts that peeped through them 
could only be seen and felt. But descriptions of beauty 
are never satisfactory. It must, therefore, be left to 
the imagination of the reader to conceive of something 
not more than mortal, — nor, indeed, quite the perfec¬ 
tion of mortality, — but charming men the more, be¬ 
cause they felt, that, lovely as she was, she was of like 
nature to themselves. 

From the time that Ellen entered Doctor Melmoth’s 
habitation, the sunny days seemed brighter, and the 
cloudy ones less gloomy, than he had ever before known 
them. He naturally delighted in children; and Ellen, 
though her years approached to womanhood, had yet 
much of the gaiety and simple happiness, because the 
innocence, of a child. She consequently became the 
very blessing of his life, — the rich recreation that he 


FANSHAWE. 


9 


promised himself for hours of literary toil. On one 
occasion, indeed, he even made her his companion in 
the sacred retreat of his study, with the purpose of 
entering upon a course of instruction in the learned 
languages. This measure, however, he found inexpe¬ 
dient to repeat; for Ellen, having discovered an old 
romance among his heavy folios, contrived, by the charm 
of her sweet voice, to engage his attention therein, till 
all more important concerns were forgotten. 

With Mrs. Melmoth, Ellen was not, of course, so 
great a favorite as with her husband; for women can¬ 
not, so readily as men, bestow upon the offspring of 
others those affections that nature intended for their 
own; and the Doctor’s extraordinary partiality was any¬ 
thing rather than a pledge of his wife’s. But Ellen 
differed so far from the idea she had previously formed 
of her, as a daughter of one of the principal merchants, 
who were then, as now, like nobles in the land, that the 
stock of dislike which Mrs. Melmoth had provided, was 
found to be totally inapplicable. The young stranger 
strove so hard, too, (and undoubtedly it was a pleasant 
labor) to win her love, that she was successful, to a 
degree of which the lady herself was not, perhaps, 
aware. It was soon seen that her education had not 
been neglected in those points which Mrs. Melmoth 
deemed most important. The nicer departments of 
cookery, after sufficient proof of her skill, were com¬ 
mitted to her care; and the Doctor’s table was now 
covered with delicacies, simple indeed, but as tempting 
on account of their intrinsic excellence as of the small 
white hands that made them. By such arts as these — 
which in her were no arts, but the dictates of an affec¬ 
tionate disposition—by making herself useful where it 
was possible, and agreeable on all occasions, Ellen 
gained the love of every one within the sphere of her 
influence. 

But the maiden’s conquests were not confined to the 
members of Dr. Melmoth’s family. She had numerous 
admirers among those, whose situation compelled them 
to stand afar off and gaze upon her loveliness; as if 


IO 


FANSHAWE. 


she were a star, whose brightness they saw, but whose 
warmth they could not feel. These were the young 
men of Harley College, whose chief opportunities of 
beholding Ellen were upon the Sabbaths, when she 
worshipped with them in the little chapel, which served 
the purposes of a church to all the families of the 
vicinity. There was, about this period, (and the fact 
was undoubtedly attributable to Ellen’s influence) a gen¬ 
eral and very evident decline in the scholarship of the 
college, — especially in regard to the severer studies. 
The intellectual powers of the young men seemed to be 
directed chiefly to the construction of Latin and Greek 
verse, many copies of which, with a characteristic and 
classic gallantry, were strewn in the path where Ellen 
Langton was accustomed to walk. They, however, pro¬ 
duced no perceptible effect; nor were the aspirations of 
another ambitious youth, who celebrated her perfections 
in Hebrew, attended with their merited success. 

But there was one young man, to whom circumstances, 
independent of his personal advantages, afforded a su¬ 
perior opportunity of gaining Ellen’s favor. He was 
nearly related to Dr. Melmoth, on which account he 
received his education at Harley College, rather than at 
one of the English Universities, to the expenses of 
which his fortune would have been adequate. This 
connexion entitled him to a frequent and familiar access 
to the domestic hearth of the dignitary, — an advantage 
of which, since Ellen Langton became a member of the 
family, he very constantly availed himself. 

Edward Walcott was certainly much superior, in most 
of the particulars of which a lady takes cognizance, to 
those of his fellow-students who had come under Ellen’s 
notice. He was tall; and the natural grace of his man¬ 
ners had been improved (an advantage which few of his 
associates could boast) by early intercourse with polished 
society. His features, also, were handsome, and prom¬ 
ised to be manly and dignified, when they should cease 
to be youthful. His character as a scholar was more 
than respectable, though many youthful follies, some¬ 
times, perhaps, approaching near to vices, were laid to 


FANSHAWE. 


11 

his charge. But his occasional derelictions from dis¬ 
cipline were not such as to create any very serious 
apprehensions respecting his future welfare; nor were 
they greater than, perhaps, might be expected from a 
young man who possessed a considerable command of 
money, and who was, besides, the fine gentleman of the 
little community of which he was a member, — a char¬ 
acter which generally leads its possessor into follies that 
he would otherwise have avoided. 

With this youth, Ellen Langton became familiar, and 
even intimate ; for he was her only companion, of an age 
suited to her own, and the difference of sex did not occur 
to her as an objection. He was her constant companion, 
on all necessary and allowable occasions, and drew upon 
himself, in consequence, the envy of the college. 


CHAPTER II. 

Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain, 

Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain; 

As painfully to pore upon a book, 

To seek the light of truth, while truth the while 
Doth falsely blind the eye-sight of his look. 

Shakspeare. 

On one of the afternoons which afforded to the stu¬ 
dents a relaxation from their usual labors, Ellen was 
attended by her cavalier in a little excursion over the 
rough bridle-roads that led from her new residence. 
She was an experienced equestrian, — a necessary ac¬ 
complishment at that period, when vehicles of every 
kind were rare. It was now the latter end of spring; 
but the season had hitherto been backward, with only a 
few warm and pleasant days. The present afternoon, 
however, was a delicious mingling of Spring and Sum¬ 
mer, forming in their union, an atmosphere so mild and 
pure, that to breathe was almost a positive happiness. 
There was a little alternation of cloud across the brow 



12 


FANSHAWE. 


of Heaven, but only so much as to render the sunshine 
more delightful. 

The path of the young travellers lay sometimes among 
tall and thick standing trees, and sometimes over naked 
and desolate hills, whence man had taken the natural 
vegetation, and then left the soil to its barrenness. 
Indeed, there is little inducement to a cultivator to labor 
among the huge stones, which there peep forth from the 
earth, seeming to form a continued ledge for several 
miles. A singular contrast to this unfavored tract of 
country is seen in the narrow but luxuriant, though 
sometimes swampy, strip of interval, on both sides of 
the stream, that, as has been noticed, flows down the 
valley. The light and buoyant spirits of Edward Wal¬ 
cott and Ellen rose higher as they rode on, and their 
way was enlivened, wherever its roughness did not for¬ 
bid, by their conversation and pleasant laughter. But 
at length Ellen drew her bridle, as they emerged from a 
thick portion of the forest, just at the foot of a steep hill. 

‘We must have ridden far,’ she observed, — ‘farther 
than I thought. It will be near sunset before we can 
reach home.” 

‘ There are still several hours of daylight,’ replied 
Edward Walcott; ‘ and we will not turn back without 
ascending this hill. The prospect from the summit is 
beautiful, and will be particularly so now, in this rich 
sunlight. Come Ellen, — one light touch of the whip : 
— your pony is as fresh as when we started.’ 

On reaching the summit of the hill, and looking back 
in the direction in which they had come, they could see 
the little stream, peeping forth many times to the day¬ 
light, and then shrinking back into the shade. Farther 
on, it became broad and deep, though rendered inca¬ 
pable of navigation, in this part of its course, by the 
occasional interruption of rapids. 

‘ There are hidden wonders of rock and precipice and 
cave, in that dark forest,’ said Edward, pointing to the 
space between them and the river. ‘ If it were earlier 
in the day, I should love to lead you there. Shall we 
try the adventure now, Ellen ? ’ 


FANSHAWE. 


13 


‘ O no ! ’ she replied ; * let us delay no longer. I fear 
I must even now abide a rebuke from Mrs. Melmoth, 
which I have surely deserved. But who is this, who 
rides on so slowly before us ? ’ 

She pointed to a horseman, whom they had not be¬ 
fore observed. He was descending the hill; but, as his 
steed seemed to have chosen his own pace, he made a 
very inconsiderable progress. 

‘ O, do you not know him ? — But it is scarcely pos¬ 
sible you should,’ exclaimed her companion. * We must 
do him the good office, Ellen, of stopping his progress, 
or he will find himself at the village, a dozen miles 
farther on, before he resumes his consciousness.’ 

‘ Has he then lost his senses ? ’ inquired Miss Langton. 

‘ Not so, Ellen, — if much learning has not made him 
mad,’ replied Edward Walcott. ‘ He is a deep scholar, 
and a noble fellow; but I fear we shall follow him to 
his grave ere long. Dr. Melmoth has sent him to ride 
in pursuit of his health. He will never overtake it, 
however, at this pace.’ 

As he spoke, they had approached close to the sub¬ 
ject of their conversation, and Ellen had a moment’s 
space for observation, before he started from the ab¬ 
straction, in which he was plunged. The result of her 
scrutiny was favorable, yet very painful. 

The stranger could scarcely have attained his twen¬ 
tieth year, and was possessed of a face and form, such 
as Nature bestows on none but her favorites. There 
was a nobleness on his high forehead, which time would 
have deepened into majesty; and all his features were 
formed with a strength and boldness, of which the pale¬ 
ness, produced by study and confinement, could not 
deprive them. The expression of his countenance was 
not a melancholy one ; — on the contrary, it was proud 
and high — perhaps triumphant — like one who was a 
ruler in a world of his own, and independent of the 
beings that surrounded him. But a blight, of which his 
thin, pale cheek and the brightness of his eye, were 
alike proofs, seemed to have come over him ere his 
maturity. 


FANSHAWE. 


14 

The scholar’s attention was now aroused by the hoof- 
tramps at his side, and starting, he fixed his eye on 
Ellen, whose young and lovely countenance was full of 
the interest he had excited. A deep blush immediately 
suffused his cheek, proving how well the glow of health 
would have become it. There was nothing awkward, 
however, in his manner; and soon recovering his self- 
possession, he bowed to her and would have rode on. 

‘Your ride is unusually long, to-day, Fanshawe,’ ob¬ 
served Edward Walcott. ‘ When may we look for your 
return ? ’ 

The young man again blushed, but answered, with a 
smile that had a beautiful effect upon his countenance, 
‘ I was not, at the moment, aware in which direction 
my horse’s head was turned. I have to thank you for 
arresting me in a journey, which was likely to prove 
much longer than I intended.’ 

The party had now turned their horses and were 
about to resume their ride in a homeward direction; 
but Edward perceived that Fanshawe, having lost the 
excitement of intense thought, now looked weary and 
dispirited. 

‘ Here is a cottage close at hand,’ he observed. ‘ We 
have ridden far, and stand in need of refreshment. 
Ellen, shall we alight ? ’ 

She saw the benevolent motive of his proposal, and 
did not hesitate to comply with it. But, as they paused 
at the cottage door, she could not but observe, that its 
exterior promised few of the comforts which they re¬ 
quired. Time and neglect seemed to have conspired its 
ruin, and but for a thin curl of smoke from its clay 
chimney, they could not have believed it to be inhabited. 
A considerable tract of land, in the vicinity of the cot¬ 
tage, had evidently been, at some former period, under 
cultivation, but was now overrun by bushes and dwarf 
pines, among which many huge gray rocks, ineradicable 
by human art, endeavored to conceal themselves. About 
half an acre of ground was occupied by the young 
blades of Indian corn, at which a half-starved cow 
gazed wistfully, over the mouldering log fence. These 


FANSHAWE. 


*5 


were the only agricultural tokens. Edward Walcott 
nevertheless drew the latch of the cottage door, after 
knocking loudly, but in vain. 

The apartment, which was thus opened to their view, 
was quite as wretched as its exterior had given them 
reason to anticipate. Poverty was there, with all its 
necessary, and unnecessary concomitants. The intruders 
would have retired, had not the hope of affording relief 
detained them. 

The occupants of the small and squallid apartment 
were two women, both of them elderly, and, from the 
resemblance of their features, appearing to be sisters. 
The expression of their countenances, however, was 
very different. One, evidently the younger, was seated 
on the farther side of the large hearth, opposite to the 
door, at which the party stood. She had the sallow 
look of long and wasting illness, and there was an 
unsteadiness of expression about her eyes, that imme¬ 
diately struck the observer. Yet her face was mild 
and gentle, therein contrasting widely with that of her 
companion. 

The other woman was bending over a small fire of 
decayed branches, the flame of which was very dispro¬ 
portionate to the smoke, scarcely producing heat suffi¬ 
cient for the preparation of a scanty portion of food. 
Her profile, only, was visible to the strangers, though, 
from a slight motion of her eye, they perceived that she 
was aware of their presence. Her features were pinched 
and spare, and wore a look of sullen discontent, for 
which the evident wretchedness of her situation afforded 
a sufficient reason. This female, notwithstanding her 
years and the habitual fretfulness, that is more wearing 
than time, was apparently healthy and robust, with a 
dry, leathery complexion. A short space elapsed before 
she thought proper to turn her face towards her visitors, 
and she then regarded them with a lowering eye, with¬ 
out speaking, or rising from her chair. 

'We entered,’ Edward Walcott began to say, ‘in the 
hope; —’ but he paused, on perceiving that the sick 
woman had risen from her seat, and with slow and 


16 


FANSHAWE. 


tottering footsteps was drawing near to him. She took 
his hand in both her own, and, though he shuddered at 
the touch of age and disease, he did not attempt to 
withdraw it. She then perused all his features with 
an expression, at first of eager and hopeful anxiety, 
which faded by degrees into disappointment. Then, 
turning from him, she gazed into Fanshawe’s counte¬ 
nance with the like eagerness, but with the same result. 
Lastly, tottering back to her chair, she hid her face, 
and wept bitterly. The strangers, though they knew 
not the cause of her grief, were deeply affected; and 
Ellen approached the mourner with words of comfort, 
which, more from their tone than their meaning, produced 
a transient effect. 

‘ Do you bring news of him ? ’ she inquired, raising 
her head. ‘ Will he return to me ? Shall I see him 
before I die ? ’ Ellen knew not what to answer, and 
ere she could attempt it, the other female prevented 
her. 

‘ Sister Butler is wandering in her mind,’ she said, 

‘ and speaks of one she will never behold again. The 
sight of strangers disturbs her, and you see we have 
nothing here to offer you.’ 

The manner of the woman was ungracious, but her 
words were true. They saw that their presence could 
do nothing towards the alleviation of the misery they 
witnessed, and they felt that mere curiosity would not 
authorize a longer intrusion. So soon, therefore, as 
they had relieved, according to their power, the poverty 
that .seemed to be the least evil of this cottage, they 
emerged into the open air. 

The breath of heaven felt sweet to them, and removed 
a part of the weight from their young hearts, which 
were saddened by the sight of so much wretchedness. 
Perceiving a pure and bright little fountain, at a short 
distance from the cottage, they approached it, and using 
the bark of a birch tree as a cup, partook of its cool 
waters. They then pursued their homeward ride with 
such diligence, that, just as the sun was setting, they 
came in sight of the humble wooden edifice, which was 


FANSHAWE. 


7 


dignified with the name of Harley College. A golden 
ray rested upon the spire of the little chapel, the bell 
of which sent its tinkling murmur down the valley, to 
summon the wanderers to evening prayers. 

Fanshawe returned to his chamber, that night, and 
lit his lamp as he had been wont to do. The books 
were around him, which had hitherto been to him like 
those fabled volumes of Magic, from which the reader 
could not turn away his eye, till death were the conse¬ 
quence of his studies. But there were unaccustomed 
thoughts in his bosom, now; and to these, leaning his 
head on one of the unopened volumes, he resigned 
himself. 

He called up in review the years, that, even at his 
early age, he had spent in solitary study, — in conversa¬ 
tion with the dead, — while he had scorned to mingle 
with the living world, or to be actuated by any of its 
motives. He asked himself, to what purpose was all 
this destructive labor, and where was the happiness of 
superior knowledge. He had climbed but a few steps 
of a ladder that reached to infinity, — he had thrown 
away his life in discovering, that, after a thousand such 
lives, he should still know comparatively nothing. He 
even looked forward with dread — though once the 
thought had been dear to him — to the eternity of im¬ 
provement that lay before him. It seemed now a weary 
way, without a resting place and without a termination; 
and, at that moment, he would have preferred the dream¬ 
less sleep of the brutes that perish, to man’s proudest 
attribute, of immortality. 

Fanshawe had hitherto deemed himself unconnected 
with the world, unconcerned in its feelings, and unin¬ 
fluenced by it in any of his pursuits. In this respect 
he probably deceived himself. If his inmost heart 
could have been laid open, there would have been dis¬ 
covered that dream of undying fame, which, dream as 
it is, is more powerful than a thousand realities. But, 
at any rate, he had seemed, to others and to himself, 
a solitary being, upon whom the hopes and fears of 
ordinary men were ineffectual. 


18 


FANSHAWE. 


But now he felt the first thrilling of one of the many 
ties, that, so long as we breathe the common air, (and 
who shall say how much longer ?) unite us to our kind. 
The sound of a soft, sweet voice, — the glance of a 
gentle eye, — had wrought a change upon him, and, 
in his ardent mind a few hours had done the work of 
many. Almost in spite of himself, the new sensation 
was inexpressibly delightful. The recollection of his 
ruined health, — of his habits, so much at variance 
with those of the world, — all the difficulties that reason 
suggested, — were inadequate to check the exulting 
tide of hope and joy. 


CHAPTER III. 

And let the aspiring youth beware of love,— 

Of the smooth glance, beware ; for’t is too late, 

When on his heart the torrent softness pours. 

Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame 
Dissolves in air away. 

Thomson. 

A few months passed over the heads of Ellen Lang- 
ton and her admirers, unproductive of events, that 
separately, were of sufficient importance to be related. 
The summer was now drawing to a close, and Dr. 
Melmoth had received information that his friend’s 
arrangements were nearly completed, and that, by the 
next home-bound ship he hoped to return to his native 
country. The arrival of that ship was daily expected. 

During the time that had elapsed since his first meet¬ 
ing with Ellen, there had been a change, yet not a very 
remarkable one, in Fanshawe’s habits. He was still 
the same solitary being, so far as regarded his own sex, 
and he still confined himself as sedulously to his chamber, 
except for one hour — the sunset hour — of every day. 
At that period, unless prevented by the inclemency of 
the weather, he was accustomed to tread a path that 
wound along the banks of the stream. He had dis- 



FANSHAWE. 


l 9 

covered that this was the most frequent scene of Ellen’s 
walks, and this it was that drew him thither. 

Their intercourse was at first extremely slight. A 
bow on the one side, a smile on the other, and a pass¬ 
ing word from both, — and then the student hurried 
back to his solitude. But, in course of time, opportuni¬ 
ties occurred for more extended conversation; so that, 
at the period with which this chapter is concerned, 
Fanshawe was, almost as constantly as Edward Wal¬ 
cott himself, the companion of Ellen’s walks. 

His passion had strengthened more than proportion- 
ably to the time that had elapsed since it was conceived; 
but the first glow and excitement which attended it, had 
now vanished. He had reasoned calmly with himself 
and rendered evident to his own mind the almost utter 
hopelessness of success. He had also made his resolu¬ 
tion strong, that he would not even endeavor to win 
Ellen’s love, the result of which, for a thousand reasons, 
could not be happiness. Firm in this determination, 
and confident of his power to adhere to it, — feeling, 
also, that time and absence could not cure his own 
passion, and having no desire for such a cure, — he 
saw no reason for breaking off the intercourse that was 
established between Ellen and himself. It was remark¬ 
able, that, notwithstanding the desperate nature of his 
love, that, or something connected with it, seemed to 
have a beneficial effect upon his health. There was 
now a slight tinge of color in his cheek, and a less con¬ 
suming brightness in his eye. Could it be that hope, 
unknown to himself, was yet alive in his breast ? — that 
a sense of the possibility of earthly happiness was re¬ 
deeming him from the grave ? 

Had the character of Ellen Langton’s mind been 
different, there might, perhaps, have been danger to 
her from an intercourse of this nature with such a being 
as Fanshawe; for he was distinguished by many of 
those asperities around which a woman’s affection will 
often cling. But she was formed to walk in the calm 
and quiet paths of life, and to pluck the flowers of happi¬ 
ness from the way-side where they grow. Singularity 


20 


FANSHAWE. 


of character, therefore, was not calculated to win her 
love. She undoubtedly felt an interest in the solitary 
student, and perceiving, with no great exercise of vanity, 
that her society drew him from the destructive intensity 
of his studies, she perhaps felt it a duty to exert her 
influence. But it did not occur to her, that her influence 
had been sufficiently strong to change the whole current 
of his thoughts and feelings. 

Ellen and her two lovers (for both, though perhaps, 
not equally deserved that epithet) had met, as usual, 
at the close of a sweet summer day, and were standing 
by the side of the stream, just where it swept into a 
deep pool. The current, undermining the bank, had 
formed a recess which, according to Edward Walcott, 
afforded at that moment a hiding-place to a trout of 
noble size. 

‘ Now would I give the world,’ he exclaimed, with 
great interest, * for a hook and line, — a fish-spear, or 
any piscatorial instrument of death! Look, Ellen, you 
can see the waving of his tail from beneath the bank! ’ 

‘ If you had the means of taking him, I should save 
him from your cruelty, thus,’ said Ellen, dropping a 
pebble into the water just over the fish. ‘There! he 
has darted down the stream. How many pleasant caves 
and recesses there must be, under these banks, where 
he may be happy ! May there not be happiness in the 
life of a fish ? ’ she added, turning with a smile to 
Fanshawe. 

‘ There may,’ he replied, ‘ so long as he lives quietly 
in the caves and recesses of which you speak. Yes, 
there may be happiness, though such as few would 
envy; — but then, the hook and line — ’ 

‘Which, there is reason to apprehend, will shortly 
destroy the happiness of our friend the trout,’ interrupted 
Edward, pointing down the stream. ‘ There is an angler 
on his way towards us, who will intercept him.’ 

‘ He seems to care little for the sport, to judge by the 
pace at which he walks,’ said Ellen. 

‘ But he sees, now, that we are observing him, and is 
willing to prove that he knows something of the art,’ 


FANSHAWE. 


21 


replied Edward Walcott ‘ I should think him well 
acquainted with the stream; for, hastily as he walks, 
he has tried every pool and ripple, where a fish usually 
hides. But that point will be decided when he reaches 
yonder old bare oak-tree.’ 

‘ And how is the old tree to decide the question ? ’ 
inquired Fanshawe. 4 It is a species of evidence of 
which I have never before heard.’ 

‘ The stream has worn a hollow under its roots,’ 
answered Edward, — ‘ a most delicate retreat for a trout. 
Now, a stranger would not discover the spot; or, if he 
did, the probable result of a cast would be the loss of 
hook and line, — an accident that has occurred to me 
more than once. If, therefore, this angler takes a fish 
from thence, it follows that he knows the stream.’ 

They observed the fisher, accordingly, as he kept 
his way up the bank. He did not pause when he 
reached the old leafless oak, that formed with its roots 
an obstruction very common in American streams; but, 
throwing his line with involuntary skill, as he passed, 
he not only escaped the various entanglements, but 
drew forth a fine large fish. 

‘ There, Ellen, he has captivated your protegee, the 
trout, —or, at least, one very like him in size,’ observed 
Edward. ‘ It is singular,’ he added, gazing earnestly 
at the man. 

‘ Why is it singular ? ’ inquired Ellen Langton. ‘ This 
person perhaps resides in the neighborhood, and may 
have fished often in the stream.’ 

‘ Do but look at him, Ellen, and judge whether his life 
can have been spent in this lonely valley,’ he replied. 
‘ The glow of many a hotter sun than ours has darkened 
his brow; and his step and air have something foreign 
in them, like what we see in sailors, who have lived 
more in other countries than in their own. Is it not so, 
Ellen? — for your education in a sea port must have 
given you skill in these matters. But come, — let us 
approach nearer.’ 

They walked towards the angler, accordingly, who 
still remained under the oak, apparently engaged in ar- 


12 


FANSHAWE. 


ranging his fishing-tackle. As the party drew nigh, he 
raised his head and threw one quick, scrutinizing glance 
towards them, disclosing, on his part, a set of bold and 
rather coarse features, weather-beaten, but indicating 
the age of the owner to be not above thirty. In person 
he surpassed the middle size, was well set, and evidently 
strong and active. 

‘ Do you meet with much success, Sir ? ’ inquired 
Edward Walcott, when within a convenient distance 
for conversation. 

‘ I have taken but one fish,’ replied the angler, in an 
accent which his hearers could scarcely determine to be 
foreign, or the contrary. ‘ I am a stranger to the stream, 
and have doubtless passed over many a likely place for 
sport.’ 

‘You have an angler’s eye, Sir,’ rejoined Edward. 
‘ I observed that you made your casts as if you had 
often trod these banks, and I could scarcely have guided 
you better myself.’ 

‘Yes, I have learnt the art, and I love to practise it,’ 
replied the man. ‘ But will not the young lady try her 
skill ? ’ he continued, casting a bold eye on Ellen. ‘ The 
fish will love to be drawn out by such white hands as 
those.’ 

Ellen shrank back, though almost imperceptibly, from 
the free bearing of the man. It seemed meant for 
courtesy; but its effect was excessively disagreeable. 
Edward Walcott, who perceived and coincided in Ellen’s 
feelings, replied to the stranger’s proposal. 

‘ The young lady will not put the gallantry of the fish 
to the proof, Sir,’ he said, ‘ and she will therefore have 
no occasion for your own.’ 

‘ I shall take leave to hear my answer from the young 
lady’s own mouth,’ answered the stranger, haughtily. 
‘If you will step this way, Miss Langton,’—here he 
interrupted himself, — ‘if you will cast the line by 
yonder sunken log, I think you will meet with success.’ 

Thus saying, the angler offered his rod and line to 
Ellen. She at first drew back, — then hesitated, — but 
finally held out her hand to receive them. In thus com- 


FANSHAWE. 


2 3 


plying with the stranger’s request, she was actuated by 
a desire to keep the peace, which, as her notice of 
Edward Walcott’s crimsoned cheek and flashing eye 
assured her, was considerably endangered. The angler 
led the way to the spot which he had pointed out, 
which, though not at such a distance from Ellen’s 
companions but that words in a common tone could 
be distinguished, was out of the range of a lowered 
voice. 

Edward Walcott and the student remained by the 
oak, the former biting his lip with vexation; the latter, 
whose abstraction always vanished where Ellen was 
concerned, regarding her and the stranger with fixed 
and silent attention. The young men could at first 
hear the words that the angler addressed to Ellen. 
They related to the mode of managing the rod; and 
she made one or two casts under his direction. At 
length, however, as if to offer his assistance, the man 
advanced close to her side, and seemed to speak; but 
in so low a tone, that the sense of what he uttered was 
lost, before it reached the oak. But its effect upon 
Ellen was immediate, and very obvious. Her eyes 
flashed, and an indignant blush rose high on her cheek, 
giving to her beauty a haughty brightness, of which 
the gentleness of her disposition in general deprived 
it. The next moment, however, she seemed to recol¬ 
lect herself, and, restoring the angling rod to its owner, 
she turned away, calmly, and approached her com¬ 
panions. 

‘ The evening breeze grows chill, and mine is a dress 
for a summer day,’ she observed. ‘ Let us walk home¬ 
ward.’ 

4 Miss Langton, is it the evening breeze, alone, that 
sends you homeward ? ’ inquired Edward. 

At this moment, the angler, who had resumed and 
seemed to be intent upon his occupation, drew a fish 
from the pool, which he had pointed out to Ellen. 

* I told the young lady,’ he exclaimed, ‘ that, if she 
would listen to me a moment longer, she would be repaid 
for her trouble; — and here is the proof of my words.’ 


24 


FANSHAWE. 


‘ Come, let us hasten towards home/ cried Ellen, 
eagerly; and she took Edward Walcott’s arm, with a 
freedom that, at another time, would have enchanted 
him. He at first seemed inclined to resist her wishes; 
but complied, after exchanging, unperceived by Ellen, 
a glance with the stranger, the meaning of which the 
latter appeared perfectly to understand. Fanshawe 
also attended her. Their walk towards Dr. Melmoth’s 
dwelling was almost a silent one, and the few words 
that passed between them did not relate to the adven¬ 
ture which occupied the thoughts of each. On arriving 
at the house, Ellen’s attendants took leave of her, and 
retired. 

Edward Walcott, eluding Fanshawe’s observation with 
little difficulty, hastened back to the old oak-tree. From 
the intelligence with which the stranger had received 
his meaning glance, the young man had supposed that 
he would here await his return. But the banks of the 
stream, upward and downward, so far as his eye could 
reach, were solitary. He could see only his own image 
in the water, where it swept into a silent depth; and 
could hear only its ripple, where stones and sunken 
trees impeded its course. The object of his search 
might, indeed, have found concealment among the tufts 
of alders, or in the forest that was near at hand; but 
thither it was in vain to pursue him. The angler had 
apparently set little store by the fruits of his assumed 
occupation; for the last fish that he had taken lay yet 
alive on the bank, gasping for the element to which 
Edward was sufficiently compassionate to restore him. 
After watching him as he glided down the stream, 
making feeble efforts to resist its current, the youth 
turned away, and sauntered slowly towards the college. 

Ellen Langton, on her return from her walk, found 
Dr. Melmoth’s little parlor unoccupied, that gentleman 
being deeply engaged in his study, and his lady busied 
in her domestic affairs. The evening, notwithstanding 
Ellen’s remark concerning the chillness of the breeze, 
was almost sultry, and the windows of the apartment 
were thrown open. At one of these, which looked 


FANSHAWE. 


2 5 


into the garden, she seated herself, listening, almost 
unconsciously, to the monotonous music of a thousand 
insects, varied occasionally by the voice of a whippoor¬ 
will, who, as the day departed, was just commencing 
his song. A dusky tint, as yet almost imperceptible, 
was beginning to settle on the surrounding objects, 
except where they were opposed to the purple and 
golden clouds, which the vanished sun had made the 
brief inheritors of a portion of his brightness. In these 
gorgeous vapors, Ellen’s fancy, in the interval of other 
thoughts, pictured a fairyland, and longed for wings to 
visit it. 

But as the clouds lost their brilliancy, and assumed 
first a dull purple, and then a sullen grey tint, Ellen’s 
thoughts recurred to the adventure of the angler, which 
her imagination was inclined to invest with an undue 
singularity. It was, however, sufficiently unaccount¬ 
able, that an entire stranger should venture to demand 
of her a private audience; and she assigned, in turn, 
a thousand motives for such a request, none of which 
were in any degree satisfactory. Her most prevailing 
thought, though she could not justify it to her reason, 
inclined her to believe that the angler was a messenger 
from her father. But wherefore he should deem it 
necessary to communicate any intelligence, that he 
might possess, only by means of a private interview, 
and without the knowledge of her friends, was a mys¬ 
tery she could not solve. In this view of the matter, 
however, she half regretted that her instinctive delicacy 
had impelled her so suddenly to break off their con¬ 
ference, admitting, in the secrecy of her own mind, 
that, if an opportunity were again to occur, it might 
not again be shunned. As if that unuttered thought 
had power to conjure up its object, she now became 
aware of a form standing in the garden, at a short 
distance from the window where she sat. The dusk 
had deepened, during Ellen’s abstraction, to such a 
degree, that the man’s features were not perfectly dis¬ 
tinguishable ; but the maiden was not long in doubt of 
his identity, for he approached, and spoke in the same 


26 


FANSHAWE. 


low tone in which he had addressed her when they 
stood by the stream. 

‘ Do you still refuse my request, when its object is 
but your own good, and that of one who should be 
most dear to you ? ’ he asked. 

Ellen’s first impulse had been, to cry out for assist¬ 
ance— her second was to fly; — but rejecting both 
these measures, she determined to remain, endeavoring 
to persuade herself that she was safe. The quivering 
of her voice, however, when she attempted to reply, 
betrayed her apprehensions. 

‘ I cannot listen to such a request from a stranger,’ 
she said. ‘If you bring news from — from my father, 
why is it not told to Dr. Melmoth ? ’ 

‘ Because what I have to say is for your ear alone,’ 
was the reply ; ‘ and if you would avoid misfortune now, 
and sorrow hereafter, you will not refuse to hear me.’ 

‘ And does it concern my father ? ’ asked Ellen, 
eagerly. 

‘ It does — most deeply,’ answered the stranger. 

She meditated a moment, and then replied, ‘ I will not 
refuse, I will hear — but speak quickly.’ 

‘ We are in danger of interruption in this place, — and 
that would be fatal to my errand,’ said the stranger. ‘ I 
will await you in the garden.’ 

With these words, and giving her no opportunity for 
reply, he drew back; and his form faded from her eyes. 
This precipitate retreat from argument was the most 
probable method, that he could have adopted, of gain¬ 
ing his end. He had awakened the strongest interest in 
Ellen’s mind, and he calculated justly, in supposing that 
she would consent to an interview upon his own terms. 

Dr. Melmoth had followed his own fancies in the mode 
of laying out his garden; and, in consequence, the plan 
that had undoubtedly existed in his mind, was utterly 
incomprehensible to every one but himself. It was an 
intermixture of kitchen and flower garden, — a labyrinth 
of winding paths, bordered by hedges, and impeded by 
shrubbery. Many of the original trees of the forest were 
still flourishing among the exotics, which the doctor had 


FANSHAWE. 


27 


transplanted thither. It was not without a sensation of 
fear, stronger than she had ever before experienced, that 
Ellen Langton found herself in this artificial wilderness, 
and in the presence of the mysterious stranger. The 
dusky light deepened the lines of his dark, strong fea¬ 
tures, and Ellen fancied that his countenance wore a 
wilder and a fiercer look than when she had met him by 
the stream. He perceived her agitation, and addressed 
her in the softest tones of which his voice was capable. 

‘Compose yourself,’ he said; ‘you have nothing to 
fear from me. But we are in open view from the house, 
where we now stand; and discovery would not be with¬ 
out danger, to both of us.’ 

‘ No eye can see us here,’ said Ellen, trembling at the 
truth of her own observation, when they stood beneath a 
gnarled, low-branched pine, which Dr. Melmoth’s ideas 
of beauty had caused him to retain in his garden. 
‘ Speak quickly; for I dare follow you no farther.’ 

The spot was indeed sufficiently solitary, and the 
stranger delayed no longer to explain his errand. 

‘Your father,’ he began, — ‘do you not love him? 
Would you do aught for his welfare ? ’ 

‘ Everything that a father could ask I would do,’ ex¬ 
claimed Ellen, eagerly. ‘ Where is my father; and 
when shall I meet him ? ’ 

‘ It must depend upon yourself, whether you shall 
meet him in a few days or never.’ 

‘Never!’ repeated Ellen. ‘Is he ill?—Is he in 
danger ?’ 

‘ He is in danger,’ replied the man ; ‘ but not from ill¬ 
ness. Your father is a ruined man. Of all his friends, 
but one remains to him. That friend has travelled far, 
to prove if his daughter has a daughter’s affection.’ 

‘And what is to be the proof?’ asked Ellen, with 
more calmness than the stranger had anticipated; for 
she possessed a large fund of plain sense, which revolted 
against the mystery of these proceedings. Such a course, 
too, seemed discordant with her father’s character, whose 
strong mind and almost cold heart were little likely to 
demand, or even to pardon, the romance of affection. 


28 


FANSHAWE. 


‘This letter will explain/ was the reply to Ellen’s 
question. ‘ You will see that it is in your father’s hand ; 
and that may gain your confidence, though I am doubted.’ 

She received the letter ; and many of her suspicions of 
the stranger’s truth were vanquished by the apparent 
openness of his manner. He was preparing to speak 
further, but paused, — for a footstep was now heard, ap¬ 
proaching from the lower part of the garden. From 
their situation, at some distance from the path, and in 
the shade of the tree, they had a fair chance of eluding 
discovery from any unsuspecting passenger; and, when 
Ellen saw that the intruder was Fanshawe, she hoped 
that his usual abstraction would assist their concealment. 

But, as the student advanced along the path, his air 
was not that of one, whose deep, inward thoughts with¬ 
drew his attention from all outward objects. He rather 
resembled the hunter, on the watch for his game; and 
while he was yet at a distance from Ellen, a wandering 
gust of wind waved her white garments and betrayed her. 

‘It is as I feared,’ said Fanshawe to himself. He 
then drew nigh, and addressed Ellen with a calm 
authority that became him well, notwithstanding that 
his years scarcely exceeded her own. ‘ Miss Langton,’ 
he inquired, ‘ what do you here, at such an hour, and 
with such a companion ? ’ 

Ellen was sufficiently displeased at what she deemed 
the unauthorized intrusion of Fanshawe in her affairs; 
but his imposing manner and her own confusion pre¬ 
vented her from replying. 

‘ Permit me to lead you to the house,’ he continued, 
in the words of a request, but in the tone of a command. 
‘ The dew hangs dank and heavy on these branches, and 
a longer stay would be more dangerous than you are 
aware.’ 

Ellen would fain have resisted; but though the tears 
hung as heavy on her eyelashes, between shame and 
anger, as the dew upon the leaves, she felt compelled to 
accept the arm that he offered her. But the stranger, 
who, since Fanshawe’s approach, had remained a little 
apart, now advanced. 


FANSHAWE. 


29 


‘You speak as one in authority, young man,’ he said. 

‘ Have you the means of compelling obedience ? Does 
your power extend to men ? — Or do you rule only over 
simple girls ? Miss Langton is under my protection, 
and till you can bend me to your will, she shall remain 
so.’ 

Fanshawe turned, calmly, and fixed his eye on the, 
stranger. ‘ Retire, Sir,’ was all he said. 

Ellen almost shuddered, as if there were a mysterious 
and unearthly power in Fanshawe’s voice; for she saw 
that the stranger endeavored in vain, borne down by the 
influence of a superior mind, to maintain the boldness of 
look and bearing that seemed natural to him. He at 
first made a step forward, — then muttered a few half- 
audible words; — but, quailing at length beneath the 
young man’s bright and steady eye, he turned and 
slowly withdrew. 

Fanshawe remained silent, a moment, after his oppo¬ 
nent had departed; and when he next spoke, it was in 
a tone of depression. Ellen observed, also, that his 
countenance had lost its look of pride and authority; 
and he seemed faint and exhausted. The occasion that 
called forth his energies had passed; and they had left 
him. 

‘ Forgive me, Miss Langton,’ he said, almost humbly, 
‘if my eagerness to serve you has led me too far. 
There is evil in this stranger, more than your pure 
mind can conceive. I know not what has been his 
errand; but let me entreat you to put confidence in 
those to whose care your father has intrusted you. 
Or if I, — or — or Edward Walcott; — But I have 
no right to advise you; and your own calm thoughts 
will guide you best.’ 

He said no more; and, as Ellen did not reply, they 
reached the house, and parted in silence. 


30 


FANSHAWE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The seeds by nature planted 
Take a deep root i’ th’ soil, and though for a time 
The trenchant share and tearing harrow may 
Sweep all appearance of them from the surface, 

Yet with the first warm rains of Spring they ’ll shoot, 

And with their rankness smother the good grain. 

Heaven grant, it may n’t be so with him. 

Riches. 

The scene of this tale must now be changed to the 
little Inn, which at that period, as at the present, was 
situated in the vicinity of Harley College. The site 
of the modern establishment is the same with that of 
the ancient, but everything of the latter, that had been 
built by hands, has gone to decay and been removed, 
and only the earth, beneath and around it, remains the 
same. The modern building, a house of two stories, 
after a lapse of twenty years, is yet unfinished. On 
this account, it has retained the appellation of the 1 new 
Inn/ though, like many who have frequented it, it has 
grown old ere its maturity. Its dingy whiteness, and 
its apparent superfluity of windows (many of them being 
closed with rough boards) give it somewhat of a dreary 
look, especially in a wet day. 

The ancient Inn was a house, of which the eaves 
approached within about seven feet of the ground, 
while the roof, sloping gradually upward, formed an 
angle at several times that height. It was a comfort¬ 
able and pleasant abode to the weary traveller, both 
in summer and winter; for the frost never ventured 
within the sphere of its huge hearths; and it was pro¬ 
tected from the heat of the sultry season by three large 
elms that swept the roof with their long branches, and 
seemed to create a breeze where there was not one. 
The device upon the sign, suspended from one of these 
trees, was a Hand, holding a long necked Bottle, and 
was much more appropriate than the present unmeaning 
representation, of a Black Eagle. But it is necessary 
to speak rather more at length of the Landlord, than of 
the house over which he presided. 


FANSHAWE. 


3 i 


Hugh Crombie was one, for whom most of the wise 
men, who considered the course of his early years, had 
predicted the gallows as an end, before he should arrive 
at middle age. That these prophets of ill had been de¬ 
ceived was evident from the fact, that the doomed man 
had now past the fortieth year, and was in more pros¬ 
perous circumstances than most of those who had wagged 
their tongues against him. Yet the failure of their fore¬ 
bodings was more remarkable than their fulfilment would 
have been. 

He had been distinguished almost from his earliest 
infancy by those precocious accomplishments, which, 
because they consist in an imitation of the vices and 
follies of maturity, render a boy the favorite plaything 
of men. He seemed to have received from nature the 
convivial talents, which, whether natural or acquired, 
are a most dangerous possession ; and before his twelfth 
year he was the welcome associate of all the idle and 
dissipated of his neighborhood, and especially of those 
who haunted the tavern of which he had now become 
the landlord. Under this course of education Hugh 
Crombie grew to youth and manhood; and the lovers 
of good words could only say in his favor, that he was 
a greater enemy to himself than to any one else, and 
that, if he should reform, few would have a better 
chance of prosperity than he. 

The former clause of this modicum of praise (if praise 
it may be termed) was indisputable; but it may be 
doubted, whether, under any circumstances where his 
success depended on his own exertions, Hugh would 
have made his way well through the world. He was 
one of those unfortunate persons, who, instead of being 
perfect in any single art or occupation, are superficial 
in many, and who are supposed to possess a larger share 
of talent than other men, because it consists of numer¬ 
ous scraps, instead of a single mass. He was partially 
acquainted with most of the manual arts that gave bread 
to others; but not one of them, nor all of them, would 
give bread to him. By some fatality, the only two of 
his multifarious accomplishments, in which his excellence 


32 


FANSHAWE. 


was generally conceded, were both calculated to keep 
him poor rather than to make him rich. He was a 
musician and a poet. 

There are yet remaining in that portion of the coun¬ 
try, many ballads and songs — set to their own peculiar 
tunes — the authorship of which is attributed to him. 
In general, his productions were upon subjects of local 
and temporary interest, and would consequently require 
a bulk of explanatory notes, to render them interesting 
or intelligible to the world at large. A considerable 
proportion of the remainder are Anacreontics, — though, 
in their construction, Hugh Crombie imitated neither the 
Teian nor any other bard. These latter have generally 
a coarseness and sensuality, intolerable to minds even 
of no very fastidious delicacy. But there are two or 
three simple little songs, into which a feeling and a 
natural pathos have found their way, that still retain 
their influence over the heart. These, after two or 
three centuries, may perhaps be precious to the col¬ 
lectors of our early poetry. At any rate, Hugh Crom- 
bie’s effusions, tavern-haunter and vagrant though he 
was, have gained a continuance of fame (confined, in¬ 
deed, to a narrow section of the country) which many 
who called themselves poets then, and would have 
scorned such a brother, have failed to equal. 

During the long winter evenings, when the farmers 
were idle round their hearths, Hugh was a courted 
guest; for none could while away the hours more skil¬ 
fully than he. The winter therefore was his season of 
prosperity; in which respect he differed from the but¬ 
terflies and useless insects, to which he otherwise bore 
a resemblance. During the cold months, a very desir¬ 
able alteration for the better appeared in his outward 
man. His cheeks were plump and sanguine; his eyes 
bright and cheerful, and the tip of his nose glowed with 
a Bardolphian fire, — a flame, indeed, which Hugh was 
so far a vestal as to supply with its necessary fuel, at 
all seasons of the year. But, as the Spring advanced, 
he assumed a lean and sallow look, wilting and fading 
in the sunshine, that brought life and joy to every animal 


FANSHAWE. 


33 


and vegetable except himself. His winter patrons eyed 
him with an austere regard, and some even practised 
upon him the modern and fashionable courtesy of the 
‘cut direct.’ 

Yet, after all, there was good, or something that 
Nature intended to be so, in the poor outcast, — some 
lovely flowers, the sweeter even for the weeds that 
choked them. An instance of this was his affection 
for an aged father, whose whole support was the broken 
reed — his son. Notwithstanding his own necessities, 
Hugh contrived to provide food and raiment for the 
old man, — how, it would be difficult to say, and per¬ 
haps as well not to inquire. He also exhibited traits 
of sensitiveness to neglect and insult, and of gratitude 
for favors; both of which feelings a course of life like 
his is usually quick to eradicate. 

At length the restraint, for such his father had ever 
been, upon Hugh Crombie’s conduct was removed by 
his death; and then the wise men and the old began 
to shake their heads ; and they who took pleasure in the 
follies, vices, and misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, 
looked for a speedy gratification. They were disap¬ 
pointed, however; for Hugh had apparently determined, 
that, whatever might be his catastrophe, he would meet 
it among strangers, rather than at home. Shortly after 
his father’s death, he disappeared altogether from the 
vicinity; and his name became, in the course of years, 
an unusual sound, where once the lack of other topics of 
interest had given it a considerable degree of notoriety. 
Sometimes, however, when the winter blast was loud 
round the lonely farm-house, its inmates remembered 
him who had so often chased away the gloom of such 
an hour, and, though with little expectation of its ful¬ 
filment, expressed a wish to behold him again. 

Yet that wish, formed perhaps because it appeared 
so desperate, was finally destined to be gratified. One 
summer evening, about two years previous to the period 
of this tale, a man of sober and staid deportment, 
mounted upon a white horse, arrived at the Hand and 
Bottle, to which some civil or military meeting had 


34 


FANSHAWE. 


chanced that day, to draw most of the inhabitants of 
the vicinity. The stranger was well, though plainly 
dressed, and anywhere but in a retired country town 
would have attracted no particular attention; but here, 
where a traveller was not of every day occurrence, he 
was soon surrounded by a little crowd, who, when his 
eye was averted, seized the opportunity diligently to 
peruse his person. He was rather a thick-set man, but 
with no superfluous flesh; his hair was of iron-grey; 
he had a few wrinkles; his face was so deeply sun 
burnt, that, excepting a half-smothered glow on the tip 
of his nose, a dusky yellow was the only apparent hue. 
As the people gazed, it was observed that the elderly 
men, and the men of substance, gat themselves silently 
to their steeds, and hied homeward with an unusual 
degree of haste; till at length the inn was deserted 
except by a few wretched objects to whom it was a 
constant resort. These, instead of retreating, drew 
closer to the traveller, peeping anxiously into his face, 
and asking, ever and anon, a question, in order to dis¬ 
cover the tone of his voice. At length, with one con¬ 
sent, and as if the recognition had at once burst upon 
them, they hailed their old boon-companion, Hugh 
Crombie, and, leading him into the inn, did him the 
honor to partake of a cup of welcome at his expense. 

But, though Hugh readily acknowledged the not very 
reputable acquaintances who alone acknowledged him, 
they speedily discovered that he was an altered man. 
He partook with great moderation of the liquor, for 
which he was to pay; he declined all their flattering 
entreaties for one of his old songs; and finally, being 
urged to engage in a game at all-fours, he calmly 
observed, almost in the words of an old clergyman, on 
a like occasion, that his principles forbade a profane 
appeal to the decision by lot. 

On the next sabbath Hugh Crombie made his ap¬ 
pearance at public worship, in the chapel of Harley 
College, and here his outward demeanor was unexcep- 
tionally serious and devout, — a praise, which, on that 
particular occasion, could be bestowed on few besides. 


FANSHAWE. 


35 


From these favorable symptons, the old established prej¬ 
udices against him began to waver; and as he seemed 
not to need, and to have no intention to ask, the assist¬ 
ance of any one, he was soon generally acknowledged 
by the rich, as well as by the poor. His account of his 
past life and of his intentions for the future was brief, 
but not unsatisfactory. He said, that, since his de¬ 
parture, he had been a sea-faring man, and that, having 
acquired sufficient property to render him easy in the 
decline of his days, he had returned to live and die in 
the town of his nativity. 

There was one person, and the one whom Hugh was 
most interested to please, who seemed perfectly satisfied 
of the verity of his reformation. This was the landlady 
of the inn, whom, at his departure, he had left a gay, 
and, even at thirty-five, a rather pretty wife, and whom, 
on his return, he found a widow of fifty, fat, yellow, 
wrinkled, and a zealous member of the church. She, 
like others, had at first cast a cold eye on the wanderer; 
but it shortly became evident, to close observers, that a 
change was at work in the pious matron’s sentiments, 
respecting her old acquaintance. She was now careful 
to give him his morning dram from her own peculiar 
bottle, — to fill his pipe from her private box of Virginia, 
— and to mix for him the sleeping-cup, in which her late 
husband had delighted. Of all these courtesies Hugh 
Crombie did partake, with a wise and cautious modera¬ 
tion, that, while it proved them to be welcome, expressed 
his fear of trespassing on her kindness. For the sake 
of brevity, it shall suffice to say, that, about six weeks 
after Hugh’s return, a writing appeared on one of the 
elm-trees in front of the tavern, (where, as the place of 
greatest resort, such notices were usually displayed) 
setting forth, that marriage was intended between Hugh 
Crombie and the Widow Sarah Hutchins. And the 
ceremony, which made Hugh a landholder, a house¬ 
holder, and a substantial man, in due time took place. 

As a landlord, his general conduct was very praise¬ 
worthy. He was moderate in his charges, and attentive 
to his guests; he allowed no gross and evident disorders 


36 


FANSHAWE. 


in his house, and practised none himself; he was kind 
and charitable to such as needed food and lodging, and 
had not wherewithal to pay, — for with these his expe¬ 
rience had doubtless given him a fellow-feeling. He 
was also sufficiently attentive to his wife; though it 
must be acknowledged that the religious zeal, which had 
had a considerable influence in gaining her affections, 
grew, by no moderate degrees, less fervent. It was 
whispered, too, that the new landlord could, when time, 
place, and company were to his mind, upraise a song as 
merrily, and drink a glass as jollily, as in the days of 
yore. These were the weightiest charges that could 
now be brought against him; and wise men thought, 
that, whatever might have been the evil of his past life, 
he had returned with a desire (which years of vice, if 
they do not sometimes produce, do not always destroy) 
of being honest if opportunity should offer ; — and Hugh 
had certainly a fair one. 

On the afternoon previous to the events related in the 
last chapter, the personage whose introduction to the 
reader has occupied so large a space, was seated under 
one of the elms, in front of his dwelling. The bench 
which now sustained him, and on which were carved 
the names of many former occupants, was Hugh Crom- 
bie’s favorite lounging place, unless when his attentions 
were required by his guests. No demand had that day 
been made upon the hospitality of the Hand and Bottle, 
and the landlord was just then murmuring at the unfre¬ 
quency of employment. The slenderness of his profits, 
indeed, were no part of his concern ; for the Widow 
Hutchins’ chief income was drawn from her farm, nor 
was Hugh ever miserly inclined. But his education and 
habits had made him delight in the atmosphere of the 
Sun, and in the society of those who frequented it; and 
of this species of enjoyment his present situation cer¬ 
tainly did not afford an overplus. 

Yet had Hugh Crombie an enviable appearance of 
indolence and ease, as he sat under the old tree, pollut¬ 
ing the sweet air with his pipe, and taking occasional 
draughts from a brown jug, that stood near at hand. 


FANSHAWE. 


37 


The basis of the potation contained in this vessel, was 
harsh old cider, from the Widow’s own orchard; but its 
coldness and acidity were rendered innocuous by a due 
proportion of yet older brandy. The result of this mix¬ 
ture was extremely felicitous, pleasant to the taste, and 
producing a tingling sensation on the coats of the stom¬ 
ach, uncommonly delectable to so old a toper as Hugh. 

The landlord cast his eye, ever and anon, along the 
road that led down the valley in the direction of the vil¬ 
lage ; and at last, when the sun was wearing westward, 
he discovered the approach of a horseman. He imme¬ 
diately replenished his pipe, took a long draught from 
the brown jug, summoned the ragged youth who offici¬ 
ated in most of the subordinate departments of the Inn, 
and who was now to act as ostler; and then prepared 
himself for confabulation with his guest. 

‘ He comes from the sea-coast,’ said Hugh to himself, 
as the traveller emerged into open view on the level 
road. ‘ He is two days in advance of the post, with its 
news of a fortnight old. Pray heaven he prove commu¬ 
nicative ! ’ Then, as the stranger drew nigher, ‘ one 
would judge that his dark face had seen as hot a sun as 
mine. He has felt the burning breeze of the Indies, 
East and West, I warrant him. Ah, I see we shall send 
away the evening merrily ! Not a penny shall come out 
of his purse,—that is, if his tongue runs glibly. Just 
the man I was praying for— Now may the Devil take 
me if he is ! ’ interrupted Hugh in accents of alarm, and 
starting from his seat. He composed his countenance, 
however, with the power that long habit and necessity 
had given him over his emotions, and again settled him¬ 
self quietly on the bench. 

The traveller, coming on at a moderate pace, alighted, 
and gave his horse to the ragged ostler. He then ad¬ 
vanced towards the door near which Hugh was seated, 
whose agitation was manifested by no perceptible sign, 
except by the shorter and more frequented puffs with 
which he plied his pipe. Their eyes did not meet till 
just as the stranger was about to enter, when he started 
apparently with a surprise and alarm similar to those of 


38 


FANSHAWE. 


Hugh Crombie. He recovered himself, however, suffi¬ 
ciently to return the nod of recognition with which he 
was favored, and immediately entered the house, the 
landlord following. 

‘This way, if you please, Sir,’ said Hugh. ‘ You will 
find this apartment cool and retired.’ 

He ushered his guest into a small room, the windows 
of which were darkened by the creeping plants that clus¬ 
tered round them. Entering and closing the door, the 
two gazed at each other, a little space, without speaking. 
The traveller first broke silence. 

‘ Then this is your living self, Hugh Crombie ? ’ he 
said. The landlord extended his hand as a practical 
reply to the question. The stranger took it, though with 
no especial appearance of cordiality. 

‘ Ay, this seems to be flesh and blood,’ he said in the 
tone of one who would willingly have found it otherwise. 
‘ And how happens this, friend Hugh ? I little thought 
to meet you again in this life. When I last heard from 
you, your prayers were said, and you were bound for a 
better world.’ 

‘ There would have been small danger of your meeting 
me there,’ observed the landlord, dryly. 

‘ It is an unquestionable truth, Hugh,’ replied the 
traveller. ‘ For which reason I regret that your voyage 
was delayed. 

‘ Nay, that is a hard word to bestow on your old com¬ 
rade,’ said Hugh Crombie. ‘The world is wide enough 
for both of us, and why should you wish me out of it ? ’ 

‘Wide as it is,’ rejoined the stranger, ‘we have stum¬ 
bled against each other, —to the pleasure of neither of 
us, if I may judge from your countenance. Methinks 
I am not a welcome guest at Hugh Crombie’s Inn.’ 

“Your welcome must depend on the cause of your 
coming, and the length of your stay,’ replied the land¬ 
lord. 

‘ And what if I come to settle down among these quiet 
hills where I was born ? ’ inquired the other. ‘ What if 
I, too, am weary of the life we have led, — or afraid, 
perhaps, that it will come to too speedy an end ? Shall 


FANSHAWE. 


39 


I have your good word, Hugh, to set me up in an hon¬ 
est way of life ? Or will you make me a partner in 
your trade, since you know my qualifications ? A pretty 
pair of publicans should we be, and the quart pot would 
have little rest between us.’ 

‘ It may be as well to replenish it now,’ observed 
Hugh, stepping to the door of the room, and giving 
orders accordingly. ‘A meeting between old friends 
should never be dry. But for the partnership, it is a 
matter in which you must excuse me. Heaven knows, 
I find it hard enough to be honest, with no tempter but 
the devil and my own thoughts; and if I have you also 
to contend with, there is little hope of me.’ 

‘ Nay, that is true. Your good resolutions were always 
.like cobwebs, and your evil habits like five inch cables,’ 
replied the traveller. ‘ I am to understand, then, that 
you refuse my offer ? ’ 

‘Not only that,—but if you have chosen this valley 
as your place of rest, Dame Crombie and I must look 
through the world for another. But, hush, here comes 
the wine.’ 

The ostler, in the performance of another part of his 
duty, now appeared, bearing a measure of the liquor that 
Hugh had ordered. The wine of that period, owing to 
the comparative lowness of the duties, was of more 
moderate price than in the mother country, and of 
purer and better quality than at the present day. 

‘The stuff is well chosen, Hugh,’ observed the guest, 
after a draught large enough to authorize an opinion. 
‘You have most of the requisites for your present sta¬ 
tion, and I should be sorry to draw you from it. I 
trust there will be no need.’ 

‘Yet you have a purpose in your journey hither,’ 
observed his comrade. 

‘ Yes, — and you would fain be informed of it,’ replied 
the traveller. He arose, and walked once or twice across 
the room; then seeming to have taken his resolution, 
he paused and fixed his eye stedfastly on Hugh Crom¬ 
bie. ‘I could wish, my old acquaintance,’ he said, ‘that 
your lot had been cast anywhere rather than here. Yet 


4 o 


FANSHAWE. 


if you choose it, you may do me a good office, and one 
that shall meet with a good reward. Can I trust you ? ’ 

‘ My secrecy, you can,’ answered the host, ‘ but noth¬ 
ing farther. I know the nature of your plans, and 
whither they would lead me, too well to engage in them. 
To say the truth, since it concerns not me, I have little 
desire to hear your secret.’ 

‘ And I as little to tell it, I do assure you,’ rejoined 
the guest. ‘ I have always loved to manage my affairs 
myself, and to keep them to myself. It is a good rule, 
but it must sometimes be broken. And now, Hugh, 
how is it that you have become possessed of this com¬ 
fortable dwelling and of these pleasant fields ? ’ 

‘ By my marriage with the Widow Sarah Hutchins,’ 
replied Hugh Crombie, staring at a question, which 
seemed to have little reference to the present topic of 
conversation. 

‘It is a most excellent method of becoming a man 
of substance,’ continued the traveller; — ‘ attended with 
little trouble, and honest withal.’ 

‘ Why, as to the trouble,’ said the landlord, ‘ it follows 
such a bargain, instead of going before it. And for 
honesty — I do not recollect that I have gained a penny 
more honestly these twenty years.’ 

‘ I can swear to that,’ observed his comrade. ‘ Well, 
mine host, I entirely approve of your doings; and, 
moreover, have resolved to prosper after the same 
fashion myself.’ 

‘ If that be the commodity you seek,’ replied Hugh 
Crombie, ‘ you will find none here to your mind. We 
have widows in plenty, it is true, but most of them have 
children and few have houses and lands. But now to 
be serious — and there has been something serious in 
your eye, all this while — what is your purpose in com¬ 
ing hither? You are not safe here. Your name has 
had a wider spread than mine, and if discovered it will 
go hard with you.’ 

‘ But who would know me, now ? ’ asked the guest. 

‘Few, — few indeed,’ replied the landlord, gazing at 
the dark features of his companion, where hardship, 


FANSHAWE. 


4i 


peril and dissipation had each left their traces. ‘ No, 
you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on 
the hill by moonlight, to take a last look at his father’s 
cottage. There were tears in your eyes, then; and, as 
often as I remember them, I repent that I did not turn 
you back, instead of leading you on.’ 

‘Tears, were there? Well, there have been few 
enough since,’ said his comrade, pressing his eyelids 
firmly together, as if even then tempted to give way 
to the weakness that he scorned. ‘ And, for turning me 
back, Hugh, it was beyond your power. I had taken 
my resolution, and you did but shew me the way to exe¬ 
cute it.’ 

‘ You have not inquired after those you left behind,’ 
observed Hugh Crombie. 

‘No, —no; —nor will I have aught of them,’ exclaimed 
the traveller, starting from his seat, and pacing rapidly 
across the room. ‘ My father, I know, is dead, and I 
have forgiven him. My mother — What could I hear 
of her but misery ? — I will hear nothing.’ 

‘You must have passed the cottage, as you rode 
hitherward,’ said Hugh. ‘How could you forbear to 
enter ? ’ 

‘ I did not see it,’ he replied. ‘ I closed my eyes and 
turned away my head.’ 

‘ O, if I had had a mother — a loving mother, — if there 
had been one being in the world, that loved me, or cared 
for me, I should not have become an utter cast away,’ 
exclaimed Hugh Crombie. 

The landlord’s pathos, — like all pathos that flows 
from the wine cup, — was sufficiently ridiculous; and 
his companion, who had already overcome his own brief 
feelings of sorrow and remorse, now laughed aloud. 

‘ Come, come, mine host of the Hand and Bottle,’ he 
cried in his usual hard, sarcastic tone; ‘be a man, as 
much as in you lies. You had always a foolish trick of 
repentance; but, as I remember, it was commonly of a 
morning, before you had swallowed your first dram. 
And now, Hugh, fill the quart pot again, and we will to 
business.’ 


42 


FANSHAWE. 


When the landlord had complied with the wishes of 
his guest, the latter resumed in a lower tone than that 
of his ordinary conversation. 

‘There is a young lady, lately become a resident 
hereabouts. Perhaps you can guess her name ; for you 
have a quick apprehension in these matters.’ 

‘ A young lady ? ’ repeated Hugh Crombie. ‘ And 
what is your concern with her ? Do you mean Ellen 
Langton, daughter of the old Merchant Langton, whom 
you have some cause to remember ? ’ 

‘ I do remember him ; but he is where he will speedily 
be forgotten,’ answered the traveller. ‘ And this girl 
— I know your eye has been upon her, Hugh. De¬ 
scribe her to me.’ 

‘ Describe her! ’ exclaimed Hugh, with much anima¬ 
tion. ‘ It us impossible, in prose; but you shall have 
her very picture, in a verse of one of my own songs.’ 

‘ Nay, mine host, I beseech you to spare me. This is 
no time for quavering,’ said the guest. ‘ However, I 
am proud of your approbation, my old friend,—for 
this young lady do I intend to take to wife. What 
think you of the plan ? ’ 

Hugh Crombie gazed into his companion’s face for 
the space of a moment, in silence. There was nothing 
in its expression that looked like a jest. It still retained 
the same hard, cold look, that, except when Hugh had 
alluded to his home and family, it had worn through 
their whole conversation. 

‘ On my word, comrade! ’ he at length replied, ‘ my 
advice is, that you give over your application to the 
quart pot, and refresh your brain by a short nap. And 
yet, your eye is cool and steady. What is the meaning 
of this ? ’ 

‘ Listen, and you shall know,’ said the guest. ‘ The 
old man, her father, is in his grave.’ — 

‘ Not a bloody grave, I trust,’ interrupted the landlord, 
starting, and looking fearfully into his comrade’s face. 

‘No, a watery one,’ he replied, calmly. ‘You see, 
Hugh, I am a better man than you took me for. The 
old man’s blood is not on my head, though my wrongs 


FANSHAWE. 


43 


are on his. Now listen. He had no heir but this only 
daughter; and to her, and to the man she marries, all 
his wealth will belong. She shall marry me. Think 
you her father will rest easy in the ocean, Hugh Crom- 
bie, when I am his son-in-law ? ’ 

‘No, he will rise up to prevent it, if need be,’ an¬ 
swered the landlord. ‘ But the dead need not interpose 
to frustrate so wild a scheme.’ 

‘I understand you,’ said his comrade. ‘You are of 
opinion that the young lady’s consent may not be so 
soon won as asked. Fear not for that, mine host. I 
have a winning way with me, when opportunity serves; 
and it shall serve with Ellen Langton. I will have no 
rivals in my wooing.’ 

‘ Your intention, if I take it rightly, is to get this poor 
girl into your power, and then to force her into a mar¬ 
riage,’ said Hugh Crombie. 

‘ It is; and I think I possess the means of doing it,’ 
replied his comrade. ‘ But methinks, friend Hugh, my 
enterprise has not your good wishes.’ 

‘No; and I pray you to give it over,’ said Hugh 
Crombie, very earnestly. ‘The girl is young, lovely, 
and as good as she is fair. I cannot aid in her ruin. 
Nay more— I must prevent it.’ 

‘ Prevent it! ’ exclaimed the traveller, with a darken¬ 
ing countenance. ‘ Think twice before you stir in this 
matter, I advise you. Ruin, do you say ? Does a girl 
call it ruin, to be made an honest wedded wife? No, 
no, mine host; nor does a widow either, — else have 
you much to answer for.’ 

‘ I gave the Widow Hutchins fair play, at least; which 
is more than poor Ellen is likely to get,’ observed the 
landlord. ‘ My old comrade, will you not give up this 
scheme ? ’ 

‘ My old comrade, I will not give up this scheme,’ 
returned the other, composedly. ‘Why, Hugh, what 
has come over you since we last met? Have we not 
done twenty worse deeds of a morning, and laughed 
over them at night ? ’ 

‘ He is right there,’ said Hugh Crombie, in a medita- 


44 


FANSHAWE. 


tive tone. ‘ Of a certainty, my conscience has grown 
unreasonably tender, within the last two years. This 
one small sin, if I were to aid in it, would add but a 
trifle to the sum of mine. But then the poor girl.’ — 
His companion overheard him thus communing with 
himself, and, having had much former experience of 
his infirmity of purpose, doubted not that he should 
bend him to his will. In fact, his arguments were so 
effectual, that Hugh at length, though reluctantly, prom¬ 
ised his co-operation. It was necessary that their mo¬ 
tions should be speedy ; for, on the second day thereafter 
the arrival of the post would bring intelligence of the 
shipwreck, by which Mr. Langton had perished. 

‘And after the deed is done,’ said the landlord, ‘I 
beseech you never to cross my path again. There 
have been more wicked thoughts in my head, within 
the last hour, than for the whole two years that I have 
been an honest man.’ 

‘ What a saint art thou become, Hugh ! ’ said his com¬ 
rade. ‘ But fear not that we shall meet again. When 
I leave this valley, it will be to enter it no more.’ 

‘ And there is little danger that any other, who has 
known me, will chance upon me here/ observed Hugh 
Crombie. ‘Our trade was unfavorable to length of 
days, and I suppose most of our old comrades have 
arrived at the end of theirs/ 

‘ One whom you knew well, is nearer to you than you 
think/ answered the traveller; ‘for I did not travel 
hitherward entirely alone/ 


CHAPTER V. 

A naughty night to swim in. 

Shakspeare. 

The evening of the day succeeding the adventure 
of the angler, was- dark and tempestuous. The rain 
descended almost in a continued sheet, and occasional 



FANSHAWE. 


45 


powerful gusts of wind drove it hard against the north¬ 
eastern windows of Hugh Crombie’s inn. But at least 
one apartment of the interior presented a scene of com¬ 
fort, and of apparent enjoyment; the more delightful 
from its contrast with the elemental fury that raged 
without. A fire, which the chillness of the evening, 
though a summer one, made necessary, was burning 
brightly on the hearth; and in front was placed a small 
round table, sustaining wine and glasses. One of the 
guests, for whom these preparations had been made, 
was Edward Walcott. The other was a shy, awkward 
young man, distinguished, by the union of classic and 
rural dress, as having but lately become a student of 
Harley College. He seemed little at his ease, — prob¬ 
ably from a consciousness that he was on forbidden 
ground, and that the wine, of which he nevertheless 
swallowed a larger share than his companion, was an 
unlawful draught. 

In the catalogue of crimes, provided against by the 
laws of Harley College, that of tavern-haunting was one 
of the principal. The secluded situation of the Semi¬ 
nary, indeed, gave its scholars but a very limited choice 
of vices; and this was therefore the usual channel by 
which the wildness of youth discharged itself. Edward 
Walcott, though naturally temperate, had been not an 
unfrequent offender in this respect; for which a super¬ 
fluity both of time and money might plead some excuse., 
But since his acquaintance with Ellen Langton he had 
rarely entered Hugh Crombie’s doors; and an interrup¬ 
tion in that acquaintance was the cause of his present 
appearance there. 

Edward’s jealous pride had been considerably touched 
on Ellen’s compliance with the request of the angler. 
He had, by degrees, imperceptible perhaps to himself, 
assumed the right of feeling displeased with her con¬ 
duct ; and she had as imperceptibly accustomed herself 
to consider what would be his wishes, and to act accord¬ 
ingly. He would, indeed, in no contingency, have ven¬ 
tured an open remonstrance; and such a proceeding 
would have been attended by a result, the reverse of 


4 6 


FANSHAWE. 


what he desired. But there existed between them a 
silent compact (acknowledged perhaps by neither, but 
felt by both), according to which they had regulated the 
latter part of their intercourse. Their lips had yet 
spoken no word of love; but some of love’s rights and 
privileges had been assumed on the one side, and at least 
not disallowed on the other. 

Edward’s penetration had been sufficiently quick to 
discover that there was a mystery about the angler — 
that there must have been a cause for the blush that 
rose so proudly on Ellen’s cheek ; and his quixotism 
had been not a little mortified, because she did not im¬ 
mediately appeal to his protection. He had however 
paid his usual visit, the next day, at Dr. Melmoth’s, ex¬ 
pecting that, by a smile of more than common brightness, 
she would make amends to his wounded feelings, — such 
having been her usual mode of reparation in the few 
instances of disagreement that had occurred between 
them. But he was disappointed. He found her cold, 
silent, and abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, and 
indisposed to speak herself. Her eye was sedulously 
averted from his; and the casual meeting of their glances, 
only proved, that there were feelings in her bosom which 
he did not share. He was unable to account for this 
change in her deportment; and, added to his previous 
conceptions of his wrongs, it produced an effect upon 
his rather hasty temper, that might have manifested 
itself violently, but for the presence of Mrs. Melmoth. 
He took his leave in very evident displeasure; but, just 
as he closed the door, he noticed an expression in Ellen’s 
countenance, that, had they been alone, and had not he 
been quite so proud, would have drawn him down to 
her feet. Their eyes met, — when, suddenly, there was 
a gush of tears into those of Ellen, and a deep sadness, 
almost despair, spread itself over her features. He 
paused a moment, and then went his way; equally un¬ 
able to account for her coldness, or for her grief. He 
was well aware, however, that his situation in respect to 
her, was unaccountably changed, — a conviction so dis¬ 
agreeable, that, but for a hope that is latent, even in the 


FANSHAWE. 


47 

despair of youthful hearts, he would have been sorely 
tempted to shoot himself. 

The gloom of his thoughts — a mood of mind the 
more intolerable to him, because so unusual — had 
driven him to Hugh Crombie’s inn in search of artificial 
excitement. But even the wine had no attractions; and 
his first glass stood now almost untouched before him, 
while he gazed in heavy thought into the glowing 
embers of the fire. His companion perceived his 
melancholy, and essayed to dispel it by a choice of such 
topics of conversation, as he conceived would be most 
agreeable. 

‘There is a lady in the house,’ he observed. ‘I 
caught a glimpse of her in the passage as we came in. 
Did you see her, Edward ? ’ 

‘ A lady ! ’ repeated Edward, carelessly. ‘ What know 
you of ladies ? No, I did not see her; but I will ven¬ 
ture to say that it was dame Crombie’s self, and no 
other.’ 

‘ Well, perhaps it might,’ said the other, doubtingly. 
‘ Her head was turned from me, and she was gone like 
a shadow.’ 

‘ Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes 
like one,’ resumed Edward. ‘ You have mistaken the 
slip-shod servant-girl for a lady.’ 

‘ Ay; but she had a white hand, a small white hand,’ 
said the student, piqued at Edward’s contemptuous 
opinion of his powers of observation, — ‘as white as 
Ellen Langton’s.’ He paused, for the lover was offended 
by the profanity of the comparison, as was made evi¬ 
dent by the blood that rushed to his brow. 

‘We will appeal to the landlord,’ said Edward, re¬ 
covering his equanimity, and turning to Hugh, who 
just then entered the room — ‘Who is this angel, mine 
host, that has taken up her abode in the Hand and 
Bottle ? ’ 

Hugh cast a quick glance from one to another, before 
he answered, ‘ I keep no angels here, gentlemen. Dame 
Crombie would make the house anything but heaven, 
for them and me.’ 


4 8 


FANSHAWE. 


‘ And yet Glover has seen a vision in the passage way, 
— a lady with a small white hand.’ 

‘ Ah, I understand, — a slight mistake of the young 
gentleman’s,’ said Hugh, with the air of one who could 
perfectly account for the mystery. ‘ Our passageway 
is dark, — or perhaps the light had dazzled his eyes. 
It was the widow Fowler’s daughter, that came to 
borrow a pipe of tobacco for her mother. By the same 
token, she put it into her own sweet mouth, and puffed 
as she went along.’ 

‘ But the white hand,’ said Glover, only half convinced. 

* Nay, I know not,’ answered Hugh. ‘ But her hand 
was at least as white as her face; that I can swear. 
Well, gentlemen, I trust you find everything in my 
house to your satisfaction. When the fire needs renew¬ 
ing, or the wine runs low, be pleased to tap on the 
table. I shall appear with the speed of a sunbeam. 

After the departure of the landlord, the conversation 
of the young men amounted to little more than mono¬ 
syllables. Edward Walcott was wrapped in his own 
contemplations; and his companion was in a half- 
slumberous state, from which he started every quarter 
of an hour, at the chiming of the clock that stood in a 
corner. The fire died gradually away, the lamps began 
to burn dim, and Glover, rousing himself from one of 
his periodical slumbers, was about to propose a return 
to their chambers. He was prevented, however, by the 
approach of footsteps along the passageway ; and Hugh 
Crombie, opening the door, ushered a person into the 
room, and retired. 

The new comer was Fanshawe. The water, that 
poured plentifully from his cloak, evinced that he had 
but just arrived at the inn ; but, whatever was his 
object, he seemed not to have attained it, in meeting 
with the young men. He paused near the door, as if 
meditating whether to retire. 

‘ My intrusion is altogether owing to a mistake, either 
of the landlord’s or mine,’ he said; 4 1 came hither to 
seek another person; but, as I could not mention his 
name, my inquiries were rather vague.’ 


FANSHAWE. 


49 


‘ I thank Heaven for the chance that sent you to us,’ 
replied Edward, rousing himself; ‘ Glover is wretched 
company, and a duller evening have I never spent. We 
will renew our fire, and our wine, and you must sit down 
with us. And for the man you seek/ he continued in 
a whisper, ‘ he left the inn within a half-hour after we 
encountered him. I inquired of Hugh Crombie, last 
night.’ 

Fanshawe did not express his doubts of the correct¬ 
ness of the information on which Edward seemed to 
rely. Laying aside his cloak, he accepted his invitation 
to make one of the party, and sat down by the fireside. 

The aspect of the evening now gradually changed. 
A strange wild glee spread from one to another of the 
party, which, much to the surprise of his companions, 
began with, and was communicated from, Fanshawe. 
He seemed to overflow with conceptions, inimitably 
ludicrous, but so singular, that, till his hearers had 
imbibed a portion of his own spirit, they could only 
wonder at, instead of enjoying them. His applications 
to the wine were very unfrequent; yet his conversation 
was such as one might expect from a bottle of cham¬ 
pagne, endowed by a fairy with the gift of speech. The 
secret of this strange mirth lay in the troubled state of 
his spirits, which, like the vexed ocean at midnight, (if 
the simile be not too magnificent) tossed forth a mys¬ 
terious brightness. The undefined apprehensions, that 
had drawn him to the inn, still distracted his mind; but 
mixed with them, there was a sort of joy not easily to 
be described. By degrees, and by the assistance of the 
wine, the inspiration spread, each one contributing such 
a quantity, and such quality of wit and whim, as was 
proportioned to his genius; but each one, and all, dis¬ 
playing a greater share of both, than they had ever 
been suspected of possessing. 

At length, however, there was a pause, — the deep 
pause of flagging spirits, that always follows mirth and 
wine. No one would have believed, on beholding the 
pensive faces, and hearing the involuntary sighs, of the 
party, that from these, but a moment before, had arisen 


5° 


FANSHAWE. 


so loud and wild a laugh. During this interval, Edward 
Walcott, (who was the poet of his class) volunteered the 
following song, which, from its want of polish, and from 
its application to his present feelings, might charitably 
be taken for an extemporaneous production. 

The wine is bright, the wine is bright, 

And gay the drinkers be; 

Of all that drain the bowl to-night, 

Most jollily drain we. 

Oh, could one search the weary earth, 

The earth from sea to sea, — 

He’d turn and mingle in our mirth, 

For we’re the merriest three. 

Yet there are cares, oh, heavy cares,— 

We know that they are nigh; 

When forth each lonely drinker fares, 

Mark then his altered eye. 

Care comes upon us when the jest 
And frantic laughter, die ; 

And care will watch the parting guest, — 

O late, then, let us fly ! 

Hugh Crombie, whose early love of song and min¬ 
strelsy was still alive, had entered the room at the sound 
of Edward’s voice, in sufficient time to accompany the 
second stanza on the violin. He now, with the air of 
one who was entitled to judge in these matters, expressed 
his opinion of the performance. 

‘ Really, master Walcott, I was not prepared for this,’ 
he said in a tone of condescending praise, that a great 
man uses to his inferior, when he chooses to overwhelm 
him with excess of joy. ‘Very well, indeed, young 
gentleman. Some of the lines, it is true, seem to have 
been dragged in by the head and shoulders; but I 
could scarcely have done much better myself, at your 
age. With practice, and with such instruction as I 
might afford you, I should have little doubt of your 
becoming a distinguished poet. . A great defect in your 
seminary, gentlemen, — the want of due cultivation in 
this heavenly art.’ 

‘ Perhaps, sir,’ said Edward, with much gravity, ‘ you 


FANSHAWE. 


5 1 

might yourself be prevailed upon to accept the Pro¬ 
fessorship of Poetry ? ’ 

‘Why, such an offer would require consideration,’ 
replied the landlord. ‘Professor Hugh Crombie, of 
Harley College; — it has a good sound, assuredly. But 
I am a public man, Master Walcott, and the public 
would be loath to spare me from my present office.’ 

‘Will Professor Crombie favor us with a specimen 
of his productions ? ’ inquired Edward. 

‘ Ahem, I shall be happy to gratify you, young gen¬ 
tlemen,’ answered Hugh. ‘ It is seldom, in this rude 
country, Master Walcott, that we meet with kindred 
genius; and the opportunity should never be thrown 
away.’ 

Thus saying, he took a heavy draught of the liquor 
by which he was usually inspired, and the praises of 
which were the prevailing subject of his song. Then, 
after much hemming, thrumming, and prelusion, and 
with many queer gestures and gesticulations, he began 
to effuse a lyric, in the following fashion. 

I Ve been a jolly drinker this five and twenty year, 

And still a jolly drinker, my friends, you see me here; 

I sing the joys of drinking; — bear a chorus, every man, 

With pint pot and quart pot and clattering of can. 

The sense of the professor’s first stanza was not in 
exact proportion to the sound; but, being executed 
with great spirit, it attracted universal applause. This, 
Hugh appropriated with a condescending bow and smile; 
and making a signal for silence, he went on — 

King Solomon of old, boys, (a jolly king was he,) — 

But here he was interrupted by a clapping of hands, 
that seemed a continuance of the applause bestowed 
on his former stanza. Hugh Crombie, who, as is the 
custom of many great performers, usually sang with 
his eyes shut, now opened them, intending gently to 
rebuke his auditors for their unseasonable expression 
of delight. He immediately perceived, however, that 
the fault was to be attributed to neither of the three 


5 2 


FANSHAWE. 


young men; and following the direction of their eyes, 
he saw, near the door, in the dim back-ground of the 
apartment, a figure in a cloak. The hat was flapped 
forward, the cloak muffled round the lower part of the 
face, and only the eyes were visible. 

The party gazed a moment in silence, and then rushed 
en masse upon the intruder, the landlord bringing up * 
the rear, and sounding a charge upon his fiddle. But 
as they drew nigh, the black cloak began to assume a 
familiar look, — the hat, also, was an old acquaintance; 
— and, these being removed, from beneath them shone 
forth the reverend face and form of Doctor Melmoth,. 

The President, in his quality of clergyman, had, late 
in the preceding afternoon, been called to visit an aged 
female who was supposed to be at the point of death. 
Her habitation was at the distance of several miles from 
Harley College; so that it was nightfall before Doctor 
Melmoth stood at her bed-side. His stay had been 
lengthened beyond his anticipation, on account of the 
frame of mind in which he found the dying woman; 
and after essaying to impart the comforts of religion 
to her disturbed intellect, he had waited for the abate¬ 
ment of the storm, that had arisen while he was thus 
engaged. As the evening advanced, however, the rain 
poured down in undiminished cataracts; and the Doctor, 
trusting to the prudence, and sure-footedness of his steed, 
had, at length set forth on his return. The darkness 
of the night, and the roughness of the road, might 
have appalled him, even had his horsemanship and 
his courage been more considerable than they were; 
but by the special protection of Providence, as he rea¬ 
sonably supposed, (for he was a good man, and on a 
good errand,) he arrived safely as far as Hugh Crom- 
bie’s inn. — Doctor Melmoth had no intention of mak¬ 
ing a stay there; but as the road passed within a very 
short distance, he saw lights in the windows, and heard 
the sound of song and revelry. It immediately occurred 
to him, that these midnight rioters were, probably, some 
of the young men of his charge, and he was impelled, 
by a sense of duty, to enter and disperse them. Directed 


FANSHAWE. 


53 


by the voices, he found his way, with some difficulty, to 
the apartment, just as Hugh concluded his first stanza, 
and amidst the subsequent applause, his entrance had 
been unperceived. 

There was a silence of a moment’s continuance, after 
the discovery of Dr. Melmoth, during which he at¬ 
tempted to clothe his round, good-natured face, in a 
look of awful dignity. But, in spite of himself, there 
was a little twisting of the corners of his mouth, and a 
smothered gleam in his eye. 

‘ This has apparently been a very merry meeting, 
young gentlemen,’ he at length said ; ‘ but I fear my 
presence has cast a damp upon it.’ 

‘ O yes! your Reverence’s cloak is wet enough to 
cast a damp upon anything,’ exclaimed Hugh Crombie, 
assuming a look of tender anxiety. ‘ The young gentle¬ 
men are affrighted for your valuable life. Fear deprives 
them of utterance: permit me to relieve you of these 
dangerous garments.’ 

‘ Trouble not yourself, honest man,” replied the Doc¬ 
tor, who was one of the most gullible of mortals. ‘ I 
trust I am in no danger, my dwelling being near at 
hand. But for these young men — ’ 

‘Would your reverence but honor my Sunday suit — 
the gray broadcloth coat, and the black velvet small¬ 
clothes, that have covered my unworthy legs but once ? 
Dame Crombie shall have them ready in a moment,’ 
continued Hugh, beginning to divest the Doctor of his 
garments. 

‘ I pray you to appease your anxiety,’ cried Doctor 
Melmoth, retaining a firm hold on such parts of his 
dress as yet remained to him. ‘ Fear not for my health. 
I will but speak a word to those misguided youth, and 
begone.’ 

‘ Misguided youth, did your reverence say ? ’ echoed 
Hugh, in a tone of utter astonishment. ‘ Never were 
they better guided, than when they entered my poor 
house. Oh! had your reverence but seen them, when 
I heard their cries, and rushed forth to their assistance. 
Dripping with wet were they, like three drowned men at 


54 


FANSHAWE. 


the resurrec — ahem ! * interrupted Hugh, recollecting 
that the comparison he meditated might not suit the 
Doctor’s ideas of propriety. 

‘ But why were they abroad on such a night ? ’ in¬ 
quired the President. 

‘ Ah! doctor, you little know the love these good 
young gentlemen bear for you,’ replied the landlord. 
‘Your absence—your long absence—had alarmed 
them; and they rushed forth through the rain and 
darkness to seek you.’ 

‘ And was this indeed so ? ’ asked the doctor, in a 
softened tone, and casting a tender and grateful look 
upon the three students. They, it is but justice to men¬ 
tion, had simultaneously made a step forward, in order 
to contradict the egregious falsehoods, of which Hugh’s 
fancy was so fertile; but he assumed an expression of 
such ludicrous entreaty, that it was irresistible. 

‘ But methinks their anxiety was not of long continu¬ 
ance,’ observed doctor Melmoth, looking at the wine, 
and remembering the song that his entrance had inter¬ 
rupted. 

‘Ah ! your reverence disapproves of the wine, I see,’ 
answered Hugh Crombie. ‘ I did but offer them a drop, 
to keep the life in their poor young hearts. My dame 
advised strong waters; but, dame Crombie, says I, would 
ye corrupt their youth ? And in my zeal for their good, 
doctor, I was delighting them, just at your entrance, with 
a pious little melody of my own, against the sin of drunk¬ 
enness.’ 

‘ Truly, I remember something of the kind,’ observed 
doctor Melmoth ; ‘ and, as I think, it seemed to meet 
with good acceptance.’ 

‘ Aye, that it did ! ’ said the landlord. ‘ Will it please 
your reverence to hear it ? ’ 

King Solomon of old, boys, (a wise man I’m thinking,) 

Has warned you to beware of the horrid vice of drinking — ” 

But why I talk of drinking, foolish man that I am! and 
all this time, doctor, you have not sipped a drop of my 


FANSHAWE. 


55 


wine. Now, I entreat your reverence, as you value 
your health, and the peace and quiet of these youth.’ 

Doctor Melmoth drank a glass of wine, with the 
benevolent intention of allaying the anxiety of Hugh 
Crombie and the students. He then prepared to de¬ 
part; for a strong wind had partially dispersed the 
clouds, and occasioned an interval in the cataract of 
rain. There was, perhaps, a little suspicion yet remain¬ 
ing in the good man’s mind respecting the truth of the 
landlord’s story ; — at least, it was his evident intention, 
to see the students fairly out of the inn, before he quitted 
it himself. They therefore proceeded along the passage 
way in a body. — The lamp that Hugh Crombie held, 
but dimly enlightened them, and the number and conti¬ 
guity of the doors, caused doctor Melmoth to lay his 
hand upon the wrong one. 

‘ Not there, not there, doctor! It is Dame Crombie’s 
bedchamber,’ shouted Hugh, most energetically. * Now 
Beelzebub defend me,’ he muttered to himself, perceiv¬ 
ing that his exclamation had been a moment too late. 

‘Heavens! what do I see?’ ejaculated doctor Mel¬ 
moth, lifting his hands, and starting back from the 
entrance of the room. The three students pressed for¬ 
ward;— Mrs. Crombie and the servant-girl had been 
drawn to the spot by the sound of Hugh’s voice ; and all 
their wondering eyes were fixed on poor Ellen Langton. 

The apartment in the midst of which she stood, was 
dimly lighted by a solitary candle, at the farther ex¬ 
tremity ; but Ellen was exposed to the glare of the three 
lamps, held by Hugh, his wife, and the servant-girl. 
Their combined rays seemed to form a focus exactly at 
the point where they reached her; and the beholders, 
had any been sufficiently calm, might have watched her 
features in their agitated workings, and frequent change 
of expression, as perfectly as by the broad light of day. 
Terror had at first blanched her as white as a lily, or as 
a marble statue, which for a moment she resembled, as 
she stood motionless in the centre of the room. Shame 
next bore sway ; and her blushing countenance, covered 
by her slender white fingers, might fantastically be com- 


FANSHAWE. 


56 

pared to a variegated rose, with its alternate stripes of 
white and red. The next instant, a sense of her pure 
and innocent intentions gave her strength and courage; 
and her attitude and look had now something of pride 
and dignity. These, however, in their turn, gave way ; 
for Edward Walcott pressed forward, and attempted to 
address her. 

‘ Ellen, Ellen ! ’ he said, in an agitated and quivering 
whisper; — but what was to follow cannot be known, 
for his emotion checked his utterance. His tone, and 
look, however, again overcame Ellen Langton, and she 
burst to tears. Fanshawe advanced, and took Edward’s 
arm ; ‘ she has been deceived,’ he whispered — ‘ She is 
innocent. You are unworthy of her if you doubt it.’ 

‘ Why do you interfere, Sir ? ’ demanded Edward, 
whose passions, thoroughly excited, would willingly 
have wreaked themselves on any one. ‘ What right 
have you to speak of her innocence ? Perhaps,’ he con¬ 
tinued, an undefined and ridiculous suspicion arising in 
his mind, ‘ perhaps you are acquainted with her inten¬ 
tions. Perhaps you are the deceiver.’ 

Fanshawe’s temper was not naturally of the meekest 
character; and having had a thousand bitter feelings of 
his own to overcome, before he could attempt to console 
Edward, this rude repulse had almost aroused him to 
fierceness. But his pride, of which a more moderate 
degree would have had a less peaceable effect, came to 
his assistance; and he turned calmly and contemptu¬ 
ously away. 

Ellen, in the mean time, had been restored to some 
degree of composure. To this effect, a feeling of pique 
against Edward Walcott had contributed. She had dis¬ 
tinguished his voice in the neighbouring apartment, — 
had heard his mirth and wild laughter, without being 
aware of the state of feeling that produced them. She 
had supposed that the terms on which they parted in 
the morning, (which had been very grievous to herself,) 
would have produced a corresponding sadness in him. 
But while she sat in loneliness and in tears, her bosom 
distracted by a thousand anxieties and sorrows, of many 


FANSHAWE. 


57 


of which Edward was the object, his reckless gaiety had 
seemed to prove the slight regard in which he held her. 
After the first outbreak of emotion, therefore, she called 
up her pride (of which, on proper occasions, she had a 
reasonable share,) and sustained his upbraiding glance 
with a passive composure, which women have more 
readily at command than men. 

Doctor Melmoth’s surprise had, during this time, kept 
him silent and inactive. He gazed alternately from one 
to another, of those who stood around him, as if to seek 
some explanation of so strange an event. But the faces 
of all were as perplexed as his own ; — even Hugh Crom- 
bie had assumed a look of speechless wonder, — speech¬ 
less, because his imagination, prolific as it was, could 
not supply a plausible falsehood. 

‘ Ellen, dearest child,’ at length said the doctor, 4 what 
is the meaning of this ? ’ 

Ellen endeavored to reply ; but, as her composure was 
merely external, she was unable to render her words 
audible. Fanshawe spoke in a low voice to doctor Mel- 
moth, who appeared grateful for his advice. 

‘ True, it will be the better way,’ he replied. ‘ My 
wits are utterly confounded, or I should not have re¬ 
mained thus long. Come, my dear child,’ he continued, 
advancing to Ellen, and taking her hand, ‘ let us return 
home, and defer the explanation till the morrow. There, 
there; only dry your eyes, and we will say no more 
about it.’ 

‘ And that will be your wisest way, old gentleman,’ 
muttered Hugh Crombie. 

Ellen at first exhibited but little desire — or, rather, 
an evident reluctance — to accompany her guardian. 
She hung back, while her glance passed almost imper¬ 
ceptibly over the faces that gazed so eagerly at her; but 
the one she sought was not visible among them. She 
had no alternative, and suffered herself to be led from 
the inn. 

Edward Walcott, alone, remained behind, — the most 
wretched being, (at least such was his own opinion,) that 
breathed the vital air. He felt a sinking and sickness 


58 


FAN SH AWE. 


of the heart, and alternately a feverish frenzy, neither 
of which his short and cloudless existence had hereto¬ 
fore occasioned him to experience. He was jealous of, 
he knew not whom, and he knew not what. He was 
ungenerous enough to believe that Ellen — his pure and 
lovely Ellen — had degraded herself; though from what 
motive, or by whose agency, he could not conjecture. 
When Doctor Melmoth had taken her in charge, Edward 
returned to the apartment where he had spent the even¬ 
ing. The wine was still upon the table, and, in the 
desperate hope of stupifying his faculties, he unwisely 
swallowed huge successive draughts. The effect of his 
imprudence was not long in manifesting itself; though 
insensibility, which at another time would have been the 
result, did not now follow. Acting upon his previous 
agitation, the wine seemed to set his blood in a flame; 
and for the time being, he was a perfect madman. 

A phrenologist would probably have found the organ 
of destructiveness in strong development, just then, upon 
Edward’s cranium; for he certainly manifested an im¬ 
pulse to break and destroy whatever chanced to be 
within his reach. He commenced his operations by 
upsetting the table, and breaking the bottles and glasses. 
Then, seizing a tall heavy chair in each hand, he hurled 
them, with prodigious force, one through the window, 
and the other against a large looking-glass, the most 
valuable article of furniture in Hugh Crombie’s inn. 
The crash and clatter of these outrageous proceedings, 
soon brought the master, mistress, and maid-servant to 
the scene of action ; but the two latter, at the first sight 
of Edward’s wild demeanor and gleaming eyes, retreated 
with all imaginable expedition. Hugh chose a position 
behind the door, from whence, protruding his head, he 
endeavored to mollify his inebriated guest. His inter¬ 
ference, however, had nearly been productive of most 
unfortunate consequences; for a massive andiron, with 
round brazen head, whizzed past him, within a hair’s 
breadth of his ear. 

‘ I might as safely take my chance in a battle,’ ex¬ 
claimed Hugh, withdrawing his head, and speaking to 


FANSHAWE. 


59 


a man who stood in the passageway. ‘ A little twist of 
his hand to the left would have served my turn, as well 
as if I stood in the path of a forty-two pound ball. And 
here comes another broadside,’ he added, as some other 
article of furniture rattled against the door. 

‘ Let us return his fire, Hugh,’ said the person whom 
he addressed, composedly lifting the andiron. ‘ He is 
in want of ammunition; let us send him back his own.’ 

The sound of this man’s voice produced a most 
singular effect upon Edward. The moment before, 
his actions had been those of a raving maniac ; but, 
when the words struck his ear, he paused, put his hand 
to his forehead, seemed to recollect himself, and finally 
advanced with a firm and steady step. His countenance 
was dark and angry, but no longer wild. 

‘ I have found you, villain ! ” he said to the angler. 
‘ It is you who have done this.’ 

‘ And, having done it, the wrath of a boy — his 
drunken wrath—will not induce me to deny it,’ replied 
the other scornfully. 

* The boy will require a man’s satisfaction,’ returned 
Edward ; — ‘ and that speedily.’ 

* Will you take it now ? ’ inquired the angler, with a 
cool, derisive smile, and almost in a whisper. At the 
same time he produced a brace of pistols, and held them 
towards the young man. 

‘ Willingly,’ answered Edward, taking one of the 
weapons. ‘ Choose your distance.’ 

The angler stepped back a pace; but before their 
deadly intentions, so suddenly conceived, could be exe¬ 
cuted, Hugh Crombie interposed himself between them. 

‘ Do you take my best parlor for the cabin of the 
Black Andrew, where a pistol shot was a nightly pas¬ 
time ? ’ he inquired of his comrade. ‘ And you, master 
Edward, with what sort of a face will you walk into the 
chapel, to morning prayers, after putting a ball through 
this man’s head, or receiving one through your own ? — 
Though, in this last case, you will be past praying for, 
or praying either.’ 

‘ Stand aside : I will take the risk. Make way, or I 


6 o 


FANSHAWE. 


will put the ball through your own head/ exclaimed 
Edward, fiercely; for the interval of rationality, that 
circumstances had produced, was again giving way to 
intoxication. 

‘You see how it is,’ said Hugh to his companion, 
unheard by Edward. ‘You shall take a shot at me, 
sooner than at the poor lad in his present state. You 
have done him harm enough already, and intend him 
more. I propose,’ he continued aloud, and with a 
peculiar glance towards the angler, ‘ that this affair be 
decided to-morrow, at nine o’clock, under the old oak, 
on the bank of the stream. In the mean time, I will 
take charge of these pop-guns, for fear of accidents.’ 

‘Well, mine host, be it as you wish,’ said his com¬ 
rade. ‘ A shot more or less is of little consequence to 
me.’ He accordingly delivered his weapon to Hugh 
Crombie, and walked carelessly away. 

‘ Come, master Walcott, the enemy has retreated. 
Victoria! And now, I see, the sooner I get you to 
your chamber, the better,’ added he aside ; for the wine 
was at last beginning to produce its legitimate effect, in 
stupefying the young man’s mental and bodily faculties. 

Hugh Crombie’s assistance, though not, perhaps, quite 
indispensable, was certainly very convenient to our un¬ 
fortunate hero, in the course of the short walk that 
brought him to his chamber. When arrived there, and 
in bed, he was soon locked in a sleep, scarcely less deep 
than that of death. 

The weather, during the last hour, had appeared to 
be on the point of changing; — indeed, there were, 
every few minutes, most rapid changes. A strong 
breeze sometimes drove the clouds from the brow of 
heaven, so as to disclose a few of the stars; but, imme¬ 
diately after, the darkness would again become Egyp¬ 
tian, and the rain rush like a torrent from the sky. 


FANSHAWE. 


61 


CHAPTER VI. 

About her neck a packet-mail 

Fraught with advice, some fresh, some stale, 

Of men that walked when they were dead. 

Hudibras. 

Scarcely a word had passed between doctor Melmoth 
and Ellen Langton, on their way home; for, though the 
former was aware that his duty towards his ward would 
compel him to inquire into the motives of her conduct, 
the tenderness of his heart prompted him to defer the 
scrutiny to the latest moment. The same tenderness 
induced him to connive at Ellen’s stealing secretly up 
to her chamber, unseen by Mrs. Melmoth; to render 
which measure practicable, he opened the house door 
very softly, and stood before his half-sleeping spouse 
(who waited his arrival in the parlor,) without any 
previous notice. This act of the doctor’s benevolence 
was not destitute of heroism; for he was well assured, 
that, should the affair come to the lady’s knowledge 
through any other channel, her vengeance would descend 
not less heavily on him for concealing, than on Ellen 
for perpetrating the elopement. That she had, thus far, 
no suspicion of the fact, was evident from her com¬ 
posure, as well as from the reply to a question, which, 
with more than his usual art, her husband put to her 
respecting the non-appearance of his ward. Mrs. Mel¬ 
moth answered, that Ellen had complained of indisposi¬ 
tion, and after drinking, by her prescription, a large 
cup of herb-tea, had retired to her chamber early in the 
evening. Thankful that all was yet safe, the doctor 
laid his head upon his pillow; but, late as was the 
hour, his many anxious thoughts long drove sleep from 
his eyelids. 

The diminution in the quantity of his natural rest, did 
not, however, prevent doctor Melmoth from rising at 
his usual hour, which, at all seasons of the year, was an 
early one. He found, on descending to the parlor, that 
breakfast was nearly in readiness; for the lady of the 


6 2 


FANSHAWE. 


house, (and, as a corollary, her servant-girl,) was not 
accustomed to await the rising of the sun, in order to 
commence her domestic labors. Ellen Langton, how¬ 
ever, who had heretofore assimilated her habits to those 
of the family, was this morning invisible, — a circum¬ 
stance imputed by Mrs. Melmoth to her indisposition 
of the preceding evening, and by the doctor, to mortifi¬ 
cation, on account of her elopement and its discovery. 

‘I think I will step into Ellen’s bedchamber,’ said 
Mrs. Melmoth, ‘ and inquire how she feels herself. The 
morning is delightful after the storm, and the air will do 
her good.’ 

‘ Had we not better proceed with our breakfast? If 
the poor child is sleeping, it were a pity to disturb her,’ 
observed the doctor; for, besides his sympathy with 
Ellen’s feelings, he was reluctant, as if he were the 
guilty one, to meet her face. 

‘Well, be it so. And now sit down, doctor, for the 
hot cakes are cooling fast. I suppose you will say 
they are not so good as those Ellen made, yesterday 
morning. I know not how you will bear to part with 
her; though the thing must soon be.’ 

‘ It will be a sore trial, doubtless,’ replied doctor 
Melmoth — ‘ like tearing away a branch that is grafted 
on an old tree. And yet there will be a satisfaction in 
delivering her safe into her father’s hands.’ 

‘ A satisfaction for which you may thank me, doctor,’ 
observed the lady, ‘ If there had been none but you to 
look after the poor thing’s doings, she would have been 
enticed away long ere this, for the sake of her money.’ 

Doctor Melmoth’s prudence could scarcely restrain 
a smile at the thought, that an elopement, as he had 
reason to believe, had been plotted, and partly carried 
into execution, while Ellen was under the sole care of 
his lady; and had been frustrated only by his own 
despised agency. He was not accustomed, however, — 
nor was this an eligible occasion, — to dispute any of 
Mrs. Melmoth’s claims to superior wisdom. 

The breakfast proceeded in silence, — or, at least, 
without any conversation material to the tale. At its 


FANSHAWE. 


63 


conclusion, Mrs. Melmoth was again meditating on the 
propriety of entering Ellen’s chamber; but she was 
now prevented by an incident, that always excited much 
interest both in herself and her husband. 

This was the entrance of the servant, bearing the 
letters and newspaper, with which, once a fortnight, the 
mail-carrier journeyed up the valley. Doctor Melmoth’s 
situation, at the head of a respectable seminary, and his 
character as a scholar, had procured him an extensive 
correspondence among the learned men of his own 
country; and he had even exchanged epistles with one 
or two of the most distinguished dissenting clergymen 
of Great Britain. But, unless when some fond mother 
enclosed a one-pound note, to defray the private ex¬ 
penses of her son at College,—it was frequently the 
case, that the packets addressed to the doctor, were the 
sole contents of the mail-bag. In the present instance, 
his letters were very numerous, and, to judge from the 
one he chanced first to open, of an unconscionable 
length. While he was engaged in their perusal, Mrs. 
Melmoth amused herself with the newspaper, — a little 
sheet of about twelve inches square, which had but one 
rival in the country. — Commencing with the title, she 
labored on, through advertisements old and new, through 
poetry, lamentably deficient in rhythm and rhymes — 
through essays, the ideas of which had been trite since 
the first week of the creation; — till she finally arrived 
at the department that, a fortnight before, had con¬ 
tained the latest news from all quarters. Making such 
remarks upon these items as to her seemed good, the 
dame’s notice was at length attracted by an article, 
which her sudden exclamation proved to possess un¬ 
common interest. Casting her eye hastily over it, she 
immediately began to read aloud to her husband; but 
he, deeply engaged in a long and learned letter, instead 
of listening to what she wished to communicate, exerted 
his own lungs in opposition to hers — as is the custom 
of abstracted men when disturbed. The result was as 
follows. 

‘A brig just arrived in the outer harbor,’ began Mrs. 


6 4 


FANSHAWE. 


Melmoth, ‘ reports, that on the morning of the 25th 
ult’ here the doctor broke in, ‘ wherefore I am com¬ 
pelled to differ from your exposition of the said passage, 
for those reasons, of the which I have given you a taste; 
provided’ — the lady’s voice was now most audible — 
‘ship bottom upward, discovered by the name on her 
stern to be the Ellen of ’ — ‘ and in the same opinion 
are Hooker, Cotton, and divers learned divines of a later 
date.’ 

The doctor’s lungs were deep and strong, and victory 
seemed to incline toward him; but Mrs. Melmoth now 
made use of a tone whose peculiar shrillness, as long 
experience had taught her husband, argued a mood of 
mind not to be trifled with. 

‘ On my word, doctor,’ she exclaimed, ‘ this is most 
unfeeling and unchristian conduct! Here am I, en¬ 
deavoring to inform you of the death of an old friend, 
and you continue as deaf as a post.’ 

Doctor Melmoth, who had heard the sound, without 
receiving the sense, of these words, now laid aside the 
letter in despair, and submissively requested to be in¬ 
formed of her pleasure. 

‘There,—read for yourself,’ she replied, handing 
him the paper, and pointing to the passage containing 
the important intelligence. ‘ Read, and then finish your 
letter, if you have a mind.’ 

‘ He took the paper, unable to conjecture how the 
dame could be so much interested in any part of its 
contents; but, before he had read many words, he grew 
pale as death. ‘ Good Heavens ! what is this ? ’ he ex¬ 
claimed. He then read on, ‘ being the vessel wherein 
that eminent son of New-England, John Langton, Es¬ 
quire, had taken passage for his native country after an 
absence of many years.’ 

‘ Our poor Ellen, his orphan child! ’ said doctor 
Melmoth, dropping the paper. ‘ How shall we break 
the intelligence to her ? Alas ! her share of the afflic¬ 
tion causes me to forget my own.’ 

‘ It is a heavy misfortune, doubtless, and Ellen will 
grieve as a daughter should,’ replied Mrs. Melmoth, 


FANSHAWE. 


65 

speaking with the good sense of which she had a com¬ 
petent share. ‘ But she has never known her father, 
and her sorrow must arise from a sense of duty, more 
than from strong affection. I will go and inform her 
of her loss. It is late, and I wonder if she be still 
asleep ? ’ 

* Be cautious, dearest wife,’ said the doctor — ‘ Ellen 
has strong feelings, and a sudden shock might be 
dangerous.’ 

‘ I think I may be trusted, doctor Melmoth,’ replied 
the lady, who had a high opinion of her own abilities 
as a comforter, and was not averse to exercise them. 

Her husband, after her departure, sat listlessly turn¬ 
ing over the letters, that yet remained unopened, feeling 
little curiosity, after such melancholy intelligence, re¬ 
specting their contents. But by the handwriting of the 
direction on one of them, his attention was gradually 
arrested, till he found himself gazing earnestly on those 
strong, firm, regular characters. They were perfectly 
familiar to his eye ; but from what hand they came, he 
could not conjecture. Suddenly, however, the truth 
burst upon him; and after noticing the date, and read¬ 
ing a few lines, he rushed hastily in pursuit of his wife. 
He had arrived at the top of his speed, and at the 
middle of the stair-case, when his course was arrested 
by the lady whom he sought, who came, with a velocity 
equal to his own, in an opposite direction. The conse¬ 
quence was, a concussion between the two meeting 
masses, by which Mrs. Melmoth was seated securely 
on the stairs, while the doctor was only preserved from 
precipitation to the bottom, by clinging desperately to 
the balustrade. As soon as the pair discovered that 
they had sustained no material injury by their contact, 
they began eagerly to explain the cause of their mutual 
haste, without those reproaches, which, on the lady’s 
part, would, at another time, have followed such an 
accident. 

‘ You have not told her the bad news, I trust ? ’ cried 
doctor Melmoth, after each had communicated his and 
her intelligence, without obtaining audience of the other. 


66 


FANSHAWE. 


‘ Would you have me tell it to the bare walls ? ’ in¬ 
quired the lady, in her shrillest tone. ‘ Have I not just 
informed you that she has gone, fled, eloped ? Her 
chamber is empty, and her bed has not been occupied.’ 

‘ Gone ! ’ repeated the doctor — ‘ and, when her father 
comes to demand his daughter of me, what answer shall 
I make ? ’ 

‘ Now, heaven defend us from the visits of the dead 
and drowned ! ’ cried Mrs. Melmoth. ‘ This is a serious 
affair, doctor; but not, I trust, sufficient to raise a 
ghost.’ 

‘ Mr. Langton is yet no ghost,’ answered he ; ‘ though 
this event will go near to make him one. He was for¬ 
tunately prevented, after he had made every preparation, 
from taking passage in the vessel that was lost.’ 

‘ And where is he now ? ’ she inquired. 

‘ He is in New England. Perhaps he is at this 
moment, on his way to us,’ replied her husband. ‘ His 
letter is dated nearly a fortnight back, and he expresses 
an intention of being with us in a few days.’ 

‘Well, I thank heaven for his safety,’ said Mrs. 
Melmoth; ‘ but truly, the poor gentleman could not 
have chosen a better time to be drowned, nor a worse 
one to come to life, than this. What we shall do, doctor, 
I know not; but had you locked the doors, and fastened 
the windows, as I advised, the misfortune could not 
have happened.’ 

‘ Why, the whole country would have flouted us,’ 
answered the doctor. ‘ Is there a door in all the prov¬ 
ince, that is barred or bolted, night or day? Never¬ 
theless, it might have been advisable last night, had it 
occurred to me.’ 

‘ And why at that time, more than at all times ? ’ she 
inquired. ‘We had surely no reason to fear this event.’ 

Doctor Melmoth was silent; for his worldly wisdom 
was sufficient to deter him from giving his lady the 
opportunity, which she would not fail to use to the 
utmost, of laying the blame of the elopement at his door. 
He now proceeded, with a heavy heart, to Ellen’s 
chamber, to satisfy himself with his own eyes, of the 


FANSHAWE. 


67 

state of affairs. It was deserted, too truly; and the 
wild flowers with which it was the maiden’s custom 
daily, to decorate her premises, were drooping, as if in 
sorrow for her who had placed them there. Mrs. 
Melmoth, on this second visit, discovered on the table 
a note, addressed to her husband, and containing a few 
words of gratitude from Ellen, but no explanation of 
her mysterious flight. The doctor gazed long on the 
tiny letters, which had evidently been traced with a 
trembling hand, and blotted with many tears. 

‘ There is a mystery in this — a mystery that I can¬ 
not fathom,’ he said. ‘ And now, I would I knew what 
measures.it would be proper to take.’ 

‘ Get you on horseback, doctor Melmoth, and proceed 
as speedily as may be, down the valley to the town,’ 
said the dame, the influence of whose firmer mind was 
sometimes, as in the present case, most beneficially ex¬ 
erted over his own. ‘You must not spare for trouble — 
no, nor for danger — now — oh! if I were a man’ — 

‘ Oh, that you were,’ murmured the doctor, in a per¬ 
fectly inaudible voice. ‘ Well, and when I reach the 
town, what then ? ’ 

‘As I am a Christian woman, my patience cannot 
endure you,’ exclaimed Mrs. Melmoth—‘oh, I love to 
see a man with the spirit of a man ; but you — ’ and she 
turned away in utter scorn. 

‘ But, dearest wife,’ remonstrated the husband, who 
was really at a loss how to proceed, and anxious for her 
advice, ‘your worldly experience is greater than mine, 
and I desire to profit by it. What should be my next 
measure after arriving at the town ? ’ 

Mrs. Melmoth was appeased by the submission with 
which the doctor asked her counsel; though, if the 
truth must be told, she heartily despised him for needing 
it. She condescended, however, to instruct him in the 
proper method of pursuing the runaway maiden, and 
directed him, before his departure, to put strict inquiries 
to Hugh Crombie, respecting any stranger who might 
lately have visited his inn. That there would be wis¬ 
dom in this, doctor Melmoth had his own reasons for 


68 


FANSHAWE. 


believing; and, still without imparting them to his lady, 
he proceeded to do as he had been bid. 

The veracious landlord acknowledged that a stranger 
had spent a night and day at his inn, and was missing 
that morning; but he utterly denied all acquaintance 
with his character, or privity to his purposes. Had 
Mrs. Melmoth, instead of her husband, conducted the 
examination, the result might have been different. As 
the case was, the doctor returned to his dwelling but 
little wiser than he went forth; and, ordering his steed 
to be saddled, he began a journey, of which he knew 
not what would be the end. 

In the mean time, the intelligence of Ellen’s disap¬ 
pearance circulated rapidly, and soon sent forth hunters 
more fit to follow the chase than doctor Melmoth. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ There was racing and chacing o’er Cannobie Lee.” 

Walter Scott. 

When Edward Walcott awoke, the next morning, 
from his deep slumber, his first consciousness was, of a 
heavy weight upon his mind, the cause of which, he was 
unable, immediately to recollect. One by one, however, 
by means of the association of ideas, the events of the 
preceding night came back to his memory ; though those 
of latest occurrence were dim as dreams. But one cir¬ 
cumstance was only too well remembered — the discovery 
of Ellen Langton. By a strong effort, he next attained 
to an uncertain recollection, of a scene of madness and 
violence, followed, as he at first thought, by a duel. A 
little farther reflection, however, informed him that this 
event was yet among the things of futurity; but he 
could by no means recall the appointed time or place. 
As he had not the slightest intention (praiseworthy and 
prudent as it would unquestionably have been) to give 
up the chance of avenging Ellen’s wrongs, and his own. 



FANSHAWE. 


69 

He immediately arose and began to dress, meaning to 
learn from Hugh Crombie those particulars which his 
own memory had not retained. His chief apprehension 
was, that the appointed time had already elapsed; for 
the early sun-beams of a glorious morning were now 
peeping into his chamber. 

More than once, during the progress of dressing, he 
was inclined to believe that the duel had actually taken 
place, and been fatal to him, and that he was now in 
those regions, to which, his conscience told him, such 
an event would be likely to send him. This idea re¬ 
sulted from his bodily sensations, which were in the 
highest degree uncomfortable. He was tormented by a 
raging thirst, that seemed to have absorbed all the 
moisture of his throat and stomach; and in his present 
agitation, a cup of icy water would have been his first 
wish, had all the treasures of earth and sea been at his 
command. His head, too, throbbed almost to bursting, 
and the whirl of his brain, at every movement, promised 
little accuracy in the aim of his pistol when he should 
meet the angler. These feelings, together with the 
deep degradation of his mind, made him resolve that no 
circumstances should again, draw him into an excess 
of wine. In the meantime, his head was perhaps still 
too much confused to allow him fully to realize his un¬ 
pleasant situation. 

Before Edward was prepared to leave his chamber, 
the door was opened by one of the College bed-makers, 
who, perceiving that he was nearly dressed, entered and 
began to set the apartment in order. There were two 
of these officials pertaining to Harley College; each of 
them being, and, for obvious reasons, this was an indis¬ 
pensable qualification, a model of perfect ugliness in 
her own way. One was a tall, raw-boned, huge-jointed, 
double-fisted giantess, admirably fitted to sustain the 
part of Gleardallen, in the tragedy of Tom Thumb. 
Her features were as excellent as her form, appearing 
to have been rough hewn with a broad axe, and left un¬ 
polished. The other was a short, squat figure, about 
two thirds the height and three times the circumference 


70 


FANSHAWE. 


of ordinary females. Her hair was gray, her complexion 
of a deep yellow, and her most remarkable feature was 
a short snub nose, just discernible amid the broad im¬ 
mensity of her face. This latter lady was she who now 
entered Edward’s chamber. Notwithstanding her defi¬ 
ciency in personal attractions, she was rather a favorite 
of the students, being good-natured, anxious for their 
comfort, and, when duly encouraged, very communica¬ 
tive. Edward perceived, as soon as she appeared, that 
she only waited his assistance in order to disburden her¬ 
self of some extraordinary information ; and, more from 
compassion than curiosity, he began to question her. 

‘Well, Dolly, what news this morning?’ 

‘Why, let me see, — oh, yes. It had almost slipped 
my memory,’ replied the bed-maker. ‘ Poor widow But¬ 
ler died last night, after her long sickness. Poor woman ! 
I remember her forty years ago, or so, as rosy a lass as 
you could set eyes on.’ 

‘ Ah! has she gone ? ’ said Edward, recollecting the 
sick woman of the cottage, which he had entered with 
Ellen and Fanshawe. ‘ Was she not out of her right 
mind, Dolly ? ’ 

‘Yes; this seven years,’ she answered. ‘They say 
she came to her senses, a bit, when doctor Melmoth 
visited her yesterday, but was raving mad when she 
died. Ah ! That son of hers, if he is yet alive.— 
Well Well.’ 

‘ She had a son, then ? ’ inquired Edward. 

‘Yes, such as he was. The Lord preserve me from 
such a one,’ said Dolly. ‘ It was thought he went off 
with Hugh Crombie, that keeps the tavern now. That 
was fifteen years ago.’ 

‘ And have they heard nothing of him since ? ’ asked 
Edward.’ 

‘ Nothing good, nothing good,’ said the bed-maker. 
‘ Stories did travel up the valley, now and then ; but 
for five years there has been no word of him. They 
say Merchant Langton, Ellen’s father, met him in for¬ 
eign parts and would have made a man of him; but 
there was too much of the wicked one in him for that. 


FANSHAWE. 


7i 


Well, poor woman! I wonder who ’ll preach her 
funeral sermon.’ 

‘ Doctor Melmoth, probably,’ observed the student. 

‘ No, no! The Doctor will never finish his journey 
in time. And who knows but his own funeral will be 
the end of it,’ said Dolly with a sagacious shake of her 
head. 

* Doctor Melmoth gone a journey ! ’ repeated Edward, 
‘ What do you mean ? For what purpose ? ’ 

‘ For a good purpose enough, I may say,’ replied she. 
‘ To search out Miss Ellen, that was run away with, last 
night.’ 

‘ In the devil’s name, woman, of what are you speak¬ 
ing ? ’ shouted Edward, seizing the affrighted bed-maker 
forcibly by the arm. 

Poor Dolly had chosen this circuitous method of com¬ 
municating her intelligence, because she was well aware, 
that, if she first told of Ellen’s flight, she should find no 
ear for her account of the widow Butler’s death. She 
had not calculated, however, that the news would pro¬ 
duce so violent an effect upon her auditor; and her 
voice faltered as she recounted what she knew of the 
affair. She had hardly concluded, before Edward, who, 
as she proceeded, had been making hasty preparations, 
rushed from his chamber, and took the way towards 
Hugh Crombie’s Inn. He had no difficulty in finding 
the Landlord; who had already occupied his accus¬ 
tomed seat, and was smoking his accustomed pipe, 
under the elm-tree. 

‘ Well, Master Walcott, you have come to take a 
stomach-reliever, this morning, I suppose,’ said Hugh, 
taking the pipe from his mouth. ‘ What shall it be ? 
a bumper of wine with an egg ? — or a glass of smooth, 
old, oily brandy, such as dame Crombie and I keep for 
our own drinking ? Come, that will do it, I know.’ 

‘No, no; — neither;’ replied Edward, shuddering, 
involuntarily, at the bare mention of wine and strong 
drink. ‘ You know well, Hugh Crombie, the errand on 
which I come.’ 

‘ Well, perhaps I do,’ said the landlord. ‘ You come 


72 


FANSHAWE. 


to order me to saddle my best horse. You are for a 
ride, this fine morning.’ 

‘ True, and I must learn of you in what direction to 
turn my horse’s head,’ replied Edward Walcott. 

‘ I understand you,’ said Hugh, nodding and smiling. 
‘ And now, Master Edward, I really have taken a 
strong liking to you; and, if you please to hearken to 
it, you shall have some of my best advice.’ 

‘ Speak,’ said the young man, expecting to be told in 
what direction to pursue the chase. 

“ I advise you, then,” continued Hugh Crombie, in a 
tone in which some real feeling mingled with assumed 
carelessness, — ‘ I advise you to forget that you have 
ever known this girl, — that she has ever existed; for 
she is as much lost to you, as if she never had been 
born, or as if the grave had covered her. Come, come, 
man; — toss off a quart of my old wine, and keep up a 
merry heart. This has been my way, in many a heavier 
sorrow than ever you have felt; and you see I am alive 
and merry yet.’ But Hugh’s merriment had failed him 
just as he was making his boast of it; for Edward saw 
a tear in the corner of his eye. 

‘ Forget her ? Never, never ! ’ said the student, while 
his heart sank within him, at the hopelessness of pursuit 
which Hugh’s words implied. ‘ I will follow her to the 
ends of the earth.’ 

‘ Then so much the worse for you, and for my poor 
nag, — on whose back you shall be in three minutes,’ 
rejoined the landlord. ‘ I have spoken to you as I 
would to my own son, if I had such an incumbrance. 
Here you ragamuffin, saddle the gray, and lead him 
round to the door.’ 

‘ The gray ? I will ride the black,’ said Edward, ‘ I 
know your best horse, as well as you do yourself, 
Hugh.’ 

There is no black horse in my stable; I have parted 
with him to an old comrade of mine,’ answered the land¬ 
lord, with a wink of acknowledgment to what he saw 
were Edward’s suspicions. ‘ The gray is a stout nag, 
and will carry you a round pace, though not so fast as 


FANSHAWE. 


73 


to bring you up with them you seek. I reserved him 
for you, and put Mr. Fanshawe off with the old white, 
on which I travelled hitherward a year or two since.’ 

‘Fanshawe! Has he, then, the start of me?’ asked 
Edward. 

‘ He rode off about twenty minutes ago,’ replied 
Hugh ; ‘ but you will overtake him within ten miles, at 
farthest. But if mortal man could recover the girl, that 
fellow would do it, — even if he had no better nag than 
a broomstick, like the witches of old times.’ 

‘ Did he obtain any information from you as to the 
course?’ inquired the student. 

‘ I could give him only this much,’ said Hugh, point¬ 
ing down the road, in the direction of the town. ‘ My 
old comrade, trust no man farther than is needful, and I 
ask no unnecessary questions.’ 

The ostler now led up to the door the horse which 
Edward was to ride. The young man mounted with all 
expedition; but, as he was about to apply the spurs, his 
thirst, which the bed-maker’s intelligence had caused 
him to forget, returned most powerfully upon him. 

‘ For Heaven’s sake, Hugh, a mug of your sharpest 
cider, — and let it be a large one,’ he exclaimed. ‘ My 
tongue rattles in my mouth like, — ’ 

‘ Like the bones in a dice-box,’ said the landlord, 
finishing the comparison, and hastening to obey Ed¬ 
ward’s directions. Indeed, he rather exceeded them, by 
mingling with the juice of the apple, a jill of his old 
brandy, which, his own experience told him, would at 
that time have a most desirable effect upon the young 
man’s internal system. 

‘ It is powerful stuff, mine host, and I feel like a new 
man already,’ observed Edward, after draining the mug 
to the bottom. 

‘He is a fine lad, and sits his horse most gallantly,’ 
said Hugh Crombie to himself, as the student rode off, 
‘ I heartily wish him success. I wish to Heaven my 
conscience had suffered me to betray the plot before it 
was too late. Well, well, — a man must keep his mite of 
honesty.’ 


74 


FANSHAWE. 


The morning was now one of the most bright and 
glorious, that ever shone for mortals; and, under other 
circumstances, Edward’s bosom would have been as 
light, and his spirit would have sung as cheerfully, as 
one of the many birds that warbled around him. The 
rain-drops of the preceding night hung like glittering 
diamonds on every leaf of every tree, shaken and ren¬ 
dered more brilliant, by occasional sighs of wind, that 
removed from the traveller the superfluous heat of an 
unclouded sun. In spite of the adventure, so mysterious 
and vexatious, in which he was engaged, Edward’s elastic 
spirit (assisted, perhaps, by the brandy he had unwit¬ 
tingly swallowed) rose higher as he rode on, and he soon 
found himself endeavoring to accommodate the tune of 
one of Hugh Crombie’s ballads to the motion of the 
horse. Nor did this reviving cheerfulness argue any¬ 
thing against his unwavering faith, and pure and fervent 
love for Ellen Langton. A sorrowful and repining dis¬ 
position is not the necessary accompaniment of a ‘ leal 
and loving heart; ’ and Edward’s spirits were cheered, 
not by forgetfulness, but by hope, which would not per¬ 
mit him to doubt of the ultimate success of his pursuit. 
The uncertainty itself, and the probable danger of the 
expedition, were not without their charm to a youthful 
and adventurous spirit. In fact, Edward would not have 
been altogether satisfied to recover the errant damsel, 
without first doing battle in her behalf. 

He had proceeded but a few miles, before he came in 
sight of Fanshawe, who had been accommodated by the 
landlord with a horse much inferior to his own. The 
speed to which he had been put, had almost exhausted 
the poor animal, whose best pace was now but little 
beyond a walk. Edward drew his bridle, as he came 
up with Fanshawe. 

‘ I have been anxious to apologize,’ he said to him, 
‘for the hasty and unjust expressions of which I made 
use last evening. May I hope, that in consideration of 
my mental distraction, and the causes of it, you will for¬ 
get what has past ? ’ 

‘ I had already forgotten it,’ replied Fanshawe, freely 


FANSHAWE. 


75 


offering his hand. ‘ I saw your disturbed state of feel¬ 
ing, and it would have been unjust, both to you and to 
myself, to remember the errors it occasioned.’ 

‘ A wild expedition this,’ observed Edward, after shak¬ 
ing warmly the offered hand. ‘Unless we obtain some 
farther information at the town, we shall hardly know 
which way to continue the pursuit.’ 

‘ We can scarcely fail, I think, of lighting upon some 
trace of them,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Their flight must have 
commenced after the storm subsided, which would give 
them but a few hours the start of us. May I beg,’ he 
continued, noticing the superior condition of his rival’s 
horse, ‘ that you will not attempt to accommodate your 
pace to mine ? ’ 

Edward bowed, and rode on, wondering at the change 
which a few months had wrought in Fanshawe’s char¬ 
acter. On this occasion, especially, the energy of his 
mind had communicated itself to his frame. The color 
was strong and high in his cheek, and his whole appear¬ 
ance was that of a gallant and manly youth, whom a 
lady might love, or a fool might fear. Edward had not 
been so slow as his mistress in discovering the student’s 
affection, and he could not but acknowledge in his heart 
that he was a rival not to be despised, and might yet be 
a successful one, if by his means Ellen Langton were 
restored to her friends. This consideration caused him 
to spur forward with increased ardour; but all his speed 
could not divest him of the idea, that Fanshawe would 
finally overtake him, and attain the object of their mutual 
pursuit. There was certainly no apparent ground for 
this imagination; for every step of his horse increased 
the advantage which Edward had gained, and he soon 
lost sight of his rival. 

Shortly after overtaking Fanshawe, the young man 
passed the lonely cottage, formerly the residence of the 
Widow Butler, who now lay dead within. He was at 
first inclined to alight and make inquiries respecting 
the fugitives; for he observed, through the windows, 
the faces of several persons, whom curiosity, or some 
better feeling had led to the house of mourning. Recol- 


76 


FANSHAWE. 


lecting, however, that this portion of the road must 
have been passed by the angler and Ellen at too early 
an hour to attract notice, he forbore to waste time by 
a fruitless delay. 

Edward proceeded on his journey, meeting with no 
other noticeable event, till, arriving at the summit of a 
hill, he beheld, a few hundred yards before him, the 
Rev. Doctor Melmoth. The worthy President was 
toiling onward, at a rate unexampled in the history 
either of himself or his steed, the excellence of the 
latter consisting in sure-footedness, rather than rapid¬ 
ity. The rider looked round, seemingly in some appre¬ 
hension, at the sound of hoof-tramps behind him, but 
was unable to conceal his satisfaction on recognizing 
Edward Walcott. 

In the whole course of his life, Doctor Melmoth had 
never been placed in circumstances so embarrassing as 
the present. He was altogether a child in the ways of 
the world, having spent his youth and early manhood 
in abstracted study, and his maturity in the solitude 
of these hills. The expedition, therefore, on which fate 
had now thrust him, was an entire deviation from the 
quiet pathway of all his former years, and he felt like 
one who sets forth over the broad ocean without chart 
or compass. The affair would undoubtedly have been 
perplexing to a man of far more experience than he; 
but the Doctor pictured to himself a thousand difficul¬ 
ties and dangers, which, except in his imagination, had 
no existence. The perturbation of his spirit had com¬ 
pelled him, more than once since his departure, to regret 
that he had not invited Mrs. Melmoth to a share in the 
adventure; this being an occasion where her firmness, 
decision, and confident sagacity — which made her a 
sort of domestic hedge-hog — would have been pecul¬ 
iarly appropriate. In the absence of such a counsellor, 
even Edward Walcott — young as he was, and indiscreet 
as the Doctor thought him — was a substitute not to be 
despised; and it was singular and rather ludicrous to 
observe how the grey-haired man unconsciously became 
as a child to the beardless youth. He addressed Edward 


FANSHAWE. 


77 

with an assumption of dignity, through which his pleasure 
at the meeting was very obvious. 

‘Young gentleman, this is not well,’ he said. ‘By 
what authority have you absented yourself from the 
walls of Alma Mater, during term-time ? ’ 

‘ I conceived that it was unnecessary to ask leave, at 
such a conjuncture, and when the head of the institution 
was himself in the saddle,’ replied Edward. 

‘ It was a fault, it was a fault,’ said Doctor Melmoth, 
shaking his head; ‘ but, in consideration of the motive, 
I may pass it over. And now, my dear Edward, I 
advise that we continue our journey together, as your 
youth and inexperience will stand in need of the wis¬ 
dom of my grey head. Nay, I pray you, lay not the 
lash to your steed. You have ridden fast and far, and 
a slower place is requisite for a season.’ 

And, in order to keep up with his young companion, 
the Doctor smote his own grey nag; which unhappy 
beast, wondering what strange concatenation of events 
had procured him such treatment, endeavoured to obey 
his master’s wishes. Edward had sufficient compassion 
for Doctor Melmoth (especially as his own horse now 
exhibited signs of weariness) to moderate his pace to 
one attainable by the former. 

‘ Alas, youth ! These are strange times,’ observed the 
President, ‘when a Doctor of Divinity and an under 
graduate set forth, like a knight-errant and his squire, 
in search of a stray damsel. Methinks I am an epitome 
of the church militant, or a new species of polemical 
divinity. Pray Heaven, however, there be no encounter 
in store for us: for I utterly forgot to provide myself 
with weapons.’ 

‘ I took some thought for that matter, reverend knight,’ 
replied Edward, whose imagination was highly tickled 
by Dr. Melmoth’s chivalrous comparison. 

‘Ay, I see that you have girded on a sword,’ said 
the Divine. ‘ But wherewith shall I defend myself ? 
— My hand being empty, except of this golden-headed 
staff, the gift of Mr. Langton ? ’ 

‘ One of these, if you will accept it,’ answered Edward, 


78 


FANSHAWE. 


exhibiting a brace of pistols, ‘will serve to begin the 
conflict, before you join the battle hand to hand/ 

‘Nay, I shall find little safety in meddling with that 
deadly instrument, since I know not accurately from 
which end proceeds the bullet/ said Doctor Melmoth. 
‘ But were it not better, seeing we are so well provided 
with artillery, to betake ourselves, in the event of an 
encounter, to some stone wall or other place of strength ? * 
‘ If I may presume to advise,’ said the squire, ‘ you, 
as being most valiant and experienced, should ride for¬ 
ward, lance in hand, (your long staff serving for a lance) 
while I annoy the enemy from afar/ 

‘ Like Teucer behind the shield of Ajax,’ interrupted 
Doctor Melmoth, ‘ or David with his stone and sling. 
No, no, young man; I have left unfinished in my study 
a learned treatise, important not only to the present 
age, but to posterity, for whose sakes I must take heed 
to my safety. But, lo ! who ride yonder ? ’ he exclaimed, 
in manifest alarm, pointing to some horsemen upon the 
brow of a hill, at a short distance before them. 

‘Fear not, gallant leader/ said Edward Walcott, who 
had already discovered the objects of the Doctor’s ter¬ 
ror. ‘ They are men of peace, as we shall shortly see. 
The foremost is somewhere near your own years, and 
rides like a grave, substantial citizen,—though what 
he does here, I know not. Behind come two servants, 
men likewise of sober age and pacific appearance/ 

‘ Truly your eyes are better than mine own. Of a 
verity, you are in the right,’ acquiesced Doctor Mel¬ 
moth, recovering his usual quantum of intrepidity. ‘ We 
will ride forward courageously, as those who, in a just 
cause, fear neither death nor bonds.’ 

The reverend knight-errant and his squire, at the time 
of discovering the three horsemen, were within a very 
short distance of the town, which was, however, con¬ 
cealed from their view by the hill, that the strangers 
were descending. The road from Harley College, 
through almost its whole extent, had been rough and 
wild, and the country thin of population; but now, 
standing frequent amid fertile fields on each side of 


FANSHAWE. 


79 


the way, were neat little cottages, from which groups 
of white-headed children rushed forth to gaze upon 
the travellers. The three strangers, as well as the 
Doctor and Edward, were surrounded, as they ap¬ 
proached each other, by a crowd of this kind, plying 
their little bare legs most pertinaciously, in order to 
keep pace with the horses. 

As Edward gained a nearer view of the foremost 
rider, his grave aspect and stately demeanour struck 
him with involuntary respect. There were deep lines 
of thought across his brow, and his calm yet bright 
grey eye betokened a steadfast soul. There was also 
an air of conscious importance, even in the manner 
in which the stranger sat his horse, which a man’s 
good opinion of himself, unassisted by the concurrence 
of the world in general, seldom bestows. The two 
servants rode at a respectable distance in the rear; 
and the heavy portmanteaus at their backs intimated 
that the party had journeyed from afar. Doctor Mel- 
moth endeavored to assume the dignity that became 
him as the head of Harley College; and with a gentle 
stroke of his staff upon his wearied steed, and a grave 
nod to the principal stranger, was about to commence 
the ascent of the hill, at the foot of which they were. 
The gentleman, however, made a halt. 

‘ Doctor Melmoth, am I so fortunate as to meet you ? ’ 
he exclaimed, in accents expressive of as much sur¬ 
prise and pleasure, as were consistent with his staid 
demeanour. ‘ Have you then forgotten your old friend ?’ 

‘ Mr. Langton ! Can it be ? ’ said the Doctor, after 
looking him in the face a moment. ‘Yes, it is my old 
friend indeed ! Welcome, welcome ! Though you come 
at an unfortunate time.’ 

‘ What say you ? How is my child ? Ellen, I trust, 
is well?’ cried Mr. Langton; a father’s anxiety over¬ 
coming the coldness and reserve that were natural to 
him, or that long habit had made a second nature. 

‘She is well in health. She was so, at least, last 
night,’ replied Doctor Melmoth, unable to meet the eye 
of his friend. ‘ But, — but I have been a careless 


8 o 


FANSHAWE. 


shepherd, and the lamb has strayed from the fold while 
I slept.’ 

Edward Walcott, who was a deeply interested observer 
of this scene, had anticipated that a burst of passionate 
grief would follow the disclosure. He was, however, 
altogether mistaken. There was a momentary convul¬ 
sion of Mr. Langton’s strong features, as quick to come 
and go as a flash of lightning; and then his countenance 
was as composed — though, perhaps, a little sterner — 
as before. He seemed about to inquire into the par¬ 
ticulars of what so nearly concerned him; but changed 
his purpose on observing the crowd of children, who, 
with one or two of their parents, were endeavouring to 
catch the words that passed between the Doctor and 
himself. 

‘ I will turn back with you to the village,’ he said, in 
a steady voice; ‘and, at your leisure, I shall desire to 
hear the particulars of this unfortunate affair.’ 

He wheeled his horse accordingly, and, side by side 
with Doctor Melmoth, began to ascend the hill. On 
reaching the summit, the little country town lay before 
them, presenting a cheerful and busy spectacle. It 
consisted of one long, regular street, extending parallel 
to, and at a short distance from, the river; which here, 
enlarged by a junction with another stream, became 
navigable, not indeed for vessels of burthen, but for 
rafts of lumber and boats of considerable size. The 
houses, with peaked roofs and pitting stories, stood at 
wide intervals along the street; and the commercial 
character of the place was manifested by the shop door 
and windows, that occupied the front of almost every 
dwelling. One or two mansions, however, surrounded 
by trees and standing back at a haughty distance from 
the road, were evidently the abodes of the aristocracy 
of the village. It was not difficult to distinguish the 
owners of these, — self-important personages, with canes 
and well-powdered periwigs, — among the crowd of 
meaner men, who bestowed their attention upon Doctor 
Melmoth and his friend, as they rode by. The town 
being the nearest mart of a large extent of back coun- 


FANSHAWE. 


81 


try, there were many rough farmers and woodsmen, to 
whom the cavalcade was an object of curiosity and 
admiration. The former feeling, indeed, was general 
throughout the village. The shop-keepers left their 
customers, and looked forth from the doors, — the female 
portion of the community thrust their heads from the 
windows, — and the people in the street formed a lane, 
through which, with all eyes concentrated upon them, 
the party rode onward to the tavern. The general apti¬ 
tude that pervades the populace of a small country 
town, to meddle with affairs not legitimately concerning 
them, was increased on this occasion, by the sudden 
return of Mr. Langton, after passing through the village. 
Many conjectures were afloat respecting the cause of 
this retrograde movement; and, by degrees, something 
like the truth, though much distorted, spread generally 
among the crowd, — communicated, probably, from Mr. 
Langton’s servants. Edward Walcott, incensed at the 
uncourteous curiosity of which he, as well as his com¬ 
panions, was the object, felt a frequent impulse (though 
fortunately for himself, resisted,) to make use of his 
riding switch in clearing a passage. 

On arriving at the tavern, Doctor Melmoth recounted 
to his friend the little he knew beyond the bare fact 
of Ellen’s disappearance. Had Edward Walcott been 
called to their conference, he might, by disclosing the 
adventure of the angler, have thrown a portion of light 
upon the affair; but, since his first introduction, the 
cold and stately merchant had honoured him with no 
sort of notice. 

Edward, on his part, was not well pleased at the 
sudden appearance of Ellen’s father, and was little 
inclined to co-operate in any measures that he might 
adopt for her recovery. It was his wish to pursue the 
chase on his own responsibility, and as his own wisdom 
dictated: he chose to be an independent ally, rather 
than a subordinate assistant. But, as a step preliminary 
to his proceedings of every other kind, he found it 
absolutely necessary, having journeyed far and fasting, 
to call upon the landlord for a supply of food. The 


82 


FANSHAWE. 


viands that were set before him, were homely, but 
abundant; nor were Edward’s griefs and perplexities 
so absorbing, as to overcome the appetite of youth and 
health. 

Doctor Melmoth, and Mr. Langton, after a short 
private conversation, had summoned the landlord, in the 
hope of obtaining some clue to the developement of the 
mystery. But no young lady, nor any stranger answer¬ 
ing to the description the doctor had received from 
Hugh Crombie (which was indeed a false one) had been 
seen to pass through the village since day-break. 
Here, therefore, the friends were entirely at a loss in 
what direction to continue the pursuit. The village 
was the focus of several roads, diverging to widely dis¬ 
tant portions of the country; and which of these the 
fugitives had taken, it was impossible to determine. 
One point, however, might be considered certain, — 
that the village was the first stage of their flight; for 
it commanded the only outlet from the valley, except a 
rugged path among the hills, utterly impassable by 
horse. In this dilemma, expresses were sent by each 
of the different roads; and poor Ellen’s imprudence, 
the tale nowise decreasing as it rolled along, became 
known to a wide extent of country. Having thus done 
everything in his power to recover his daughter, the 
merchant exhibited a composure which doctor Mel¬ 
moth admired, but could not equal. His own mind, 
however, was in a far more comfortable state, than 
when the responsibility of the pursuit had rested upon 
himself. 

Edward Walcott, in the meantime, had employed but 
a very few moments in satisfying his hunger; after 
which his active intellect alternately formed and re¬ 
linquished a thousand plans for the recovery of Ellen. 
— Fanshawe’s observation, that her flight must have 
commenced after the subsiding of the storm, recurred 
to him. On inquiry, he was informed that the violence 
of the rain had continued, with a few momentary inter¬ 
missions, till near day light. The fugitives must, there¬ 
fore, have passed through the village, long after its 


FANSHAWE. 


83 


inhabitants were abroad ; and how, without the gift of 
invisibility, they had contrived to elude notice, Edward 
could not conceive. 

‘ Fifty years ago,’ thought Edward, ‘ my sweet Ellen 
would have been deemed a witch for this trackless 
journey. Truly, I could wish I were a wizard, that I 
might bestride a broom-stick, and follow her.’ 

While the young man, involved in these perplexing 
thoughts, looked forth from the open window of the 
apartment, his attention was drawn to an individual, 
evidently of a different, though not of a higher class, 
than the countrymen among whom he stood. Edward 
now recollected that he had noticed his rough, dark 
face, among the most earnest of those who had watched 
the arrival of the party. He had then taken him for 
one of the boatmen, of whom there were many in the 
village, and who had much of a sailor-like dress and 
appearance. A second and more attentive observation, 
however, convinced Edward that this man’s life had not 
been spent upon fresh water; and had any stronger 
evidence, than the nameless marks which the ocean 
impresses upon its sons, been necessary, it would have 
been found in his mode of locomotion. While Edward 
was observing him, he beat slowly up to one of Mr. 
Langton’s servants, who was standing near the door of 
the inn. He seemed to question the man with affected 
carelessness; but his countenance was dark and per¬ 
plexed, when he turned to mingle again with the 
crowd. Edward lost no time in ascertaining from the 
servant the nature of his inquiries. They had related 
to the elopement of Mr. Langton’s daughter; which 
was, indeed, the prevailing, if not the sole subject of 
conversation in the village. 

The grounds for supposing that this man was in any 
way connected with the angler, were, perhaps, very 
slight; yet, in the perplexity of the whole affair, they 
induced Edward to resolve to get at the heart of his 
mystery. To attain this end, he took the most direct 
method, — by applying to the man himself. 

He had now retired apart from the throng and bustle 


8 4 


FANSHAWE. 


of the village, and was seated upon a condemned boat, 
that was drawn up to rot upon the banks of the river. 
His arms were folded, and his hat drawn over his brows. 
The lower part of his face, which alone was visible, 
evinced gloom and depression, as did also the deep 
sighs, which, because he thought no one was near him, 
he did not attempt to restrain. 

‘Friend, I must speak with you,’ said Edward Wal¬ 
cott, laying his hand upon his shoulder, after contem¬ 
plating the man a moment, himself unseen. 

He started at once from his abstraction and his seat, 
apparently expecting violence, and prepared to resist 
it; but perceiving the youthful and solitary intruder 
upon his privacy, he composed his features with much 
quickness. 

‘ What would you with me ? ’ he asked. 

‘ They tarry long, — or you have kept a careless 
watch,’ said Edward, speaking at a venture. 

For a moment, there seemed a probability of obtain¬ 
ing such a reply to this observation, as the youth had 
intended to elicit. If any trust could be put in the 
language of the stranger’s countenance, a set of words, 
different from those to which he subsequently gave 
utterance, had risen to his lips. But he seemed nat¬ 
urally slow of speech ; and this defect was now, as is 
frequently the case, advantageous in giving him space 
for reflection. 

‘Look you, youngster; — crack no jokes on me,’he 
at length said, contemptuously. ‘ Away! — back whence 
you came, or — ’ and he slightly waved a small rattan 
that he held in his right hand. 

Edward’s eyes sparkled, and his color rose. ‘You 
must change this tone, fellow, and that speedily,’ he 
observed. ‘ I order you to lower your hand, and an¬ 
swer the questions that I shall put to you.’ 

The man gazed dubiously at him ; but finally adopted 
a more conciliatory mode of speech 

‘ Well, master; and what is your business with me ? ’ 
he inquired. ‘ I am a boatman out of employ. Any 
commands in my line ? ’ 


FANSHAWE. 


85 


‘ Pshaw ! I know you, my good friend, and you can¬ 
not deceive me,’ replied Edward Walcott. ‘We are 
private here,’ he continued, looking around. ‘ I have 
no desire or intention to do you harm ; and, if you act 
according to my directions, you shall have no cause to 
repent it.’ 

‘And what if I refuse to put myself under your 
orders ? ’ inquired the man. ‘ You are but a young cap¬ 
tain, for such an old hulk as mine.’ 

‘ The ill consequences of a refusal would all be on 
your own side,’ replied Edward. ‘ I shall, in that case, 
deliver you up to justice; if I have not the means of 
capturing you myself,’ he continued, observing the sea¬ 
man’s eye to wander rather scornfully over his youthful 
and slender figure, ‘ there are hundreds within call whom 
it will be in vain to resist. Besides, it requires little 
strength to use this,’ he added, laying his hand on a 
pistol. 

‘ If that were all, I could suit you there, my lad,’ 
muttered the stranger. He continued aloud, ‘ well, 
what is your will with me ? D-d ungenteel treat¬ 

ment, this! — But put your questions; and, to oblige 
you, I may answer them ; — if so be that I know any¬ 
thing of the matter.’ 

‘You will do wisely,’ observed the young man. 
‘ And now to business. What reason have you to 
suppose that the persons for whom you watch are not 
already beyond the village ? ’ 

The seaman paused long before he answered, and 
gazed earnestly at Edward, apparently endeavoring to 
ascertain from his countenance, the amount of his know¬ 
ledge. This he probably overrated, but, nevertheless, 
hazarded a falsehood. 

‘ I doubt not they passed before midnight,’ he said. 
‘ I warrant you they are many a league towards the 
seacoast, ere this.’ 

‘ You have kept watch, then, since midnight ? ’ asked 
Edward. 

‘ Ay, that have I. And a dark and rough one it was,’ 
answered the stranger. 



86 


FANSHAWE. 


‘And you are certain that if they passed at all, it 
must have been before that hour ? ’ 

‘ I kept my walk across the road, till the village was 
all astir,’ said the seaman. ‘ They could not have missed 
me. So, you see, your best way is to give chase; for 
they have a long start of you, and you have no time to 
lose.’ 

‘Your information is sufficient, my good friend,’ said 
Edward, with a smile. ‘ I have reason to know that 
they did not commence their flight before midnight. 
You have made it evident that they have not passed 
since. Ergo, they have not passed at all. An indispu¬ 
table syllogism. And now will I retrace my footsteps.’ 

‘ Stay, young man,’ said the stranger, placing himself 
full in Edward’s way, as he was about to hasten to the 
inn. ‘ You have drawn me in to betray my comrade; 
but before you leave this place, you must answer a 
question or two of mine. Do you mean to take the 
law with you ? — or will you right your wrongs, if you 
have any, with your own right hand ? ’ 

‘ It is my intention to take the latter method. But 
if I choose the former, what then ? ’ demanded Edward. 

‘ Nay, nothing; — only, you or I might not have gone 
hence alive,’ replied the stranger. ‘ But as you say he 
shall have fair play-* 

‘ On my word, friend,’ interrupted the young man, 
‘ I fear your intelligence has come too late to do either 
good or harm. Look towards the inn ; my companions 
are getting to horse, and my life on it, they know 
whither to ride.’ 

So saying, he hastened away, followed by the stranger. 
It was indeed evident that news, of some kind or other, 
had reached the village. The people were gathered in 
groups, conversing eagerly; and the pale cheeks, up¬ 
lifted eyebrows, and outspread hands of some of the 
female sex filled Edward’s mind with undefined, but in¬ 
tolerable apprehensions. He forced his way to doctor 
Melmoth, who had just mounted, and, seizing his bridle, 
peremptorily demanded if he knew aught of Ellen 
Langton. 



FANSHAWE. 


87 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“Full many a miserable year hath past — 

She knows him as one dead, — or worse than dead ; 

And many a change her varied life hath known, 

But her heart none.” Maturin. 

Since her interview with the angler, which was inter¬ 
rupted by the appearance of Fanshawe, Ellen Langton’s 
hitherto calm and peaceful mind, had been in a state of 
insufferable doubt and dismay. She was imperatively 
called upon — at least, she so conceived, to break through 
the rules which nature and education impose upon her 
sex, to quit the protection of those whose desire for her 
welfare was true and strong, — and to trust herself, for 
what purpose she scarcely knew, to a stranger, from 
whom the instinctive purity of her mind would involun¬ 
tarily have shrunk, under whatever circumstances she 
had met him. The letter which she had received from 
the hands of the angler, had seemed to her inexperience, 
to prove beyond a doubt, that the bearer was the friend 
of her father, and authorized by him, if her duty and 
affection were stronger than her fears, to guide her to 
his retreat. The letter spoke vaguely of losses and 
misfortunes, and of a necessity for concealment on her 
father’s part, and secrecy on her’s; and, to the credit 
of Ellen’s not very romantic understanding, it must be 
acknowledged that the mystery of the plot had nearly 
prevented its success. She did not, indeed, doubt that 
the letter was from her father’s hand; for every line 
and stroke, and even many of its phrases, were familiar 
to her. Her apprehension was, that his misfortunes, 
of what nature soever they were, had affected his in¬ 
tellect, and that, under such an influence, he had com¬ 
manded her to take a step, which nothing less than such 
a command could justify. Ellen did not, however, 
remain long in this opinion; for when she re-perused 
the letter, and considered the firm, regular characters, 
and the style, — calm and cold, even in requesting such 
a sacrifice — she felt that there was nothing like insanity 


88 


FANSHAWE. 


here. In fine, she came gradually to the belief, that 
there were strong reasons, though incomprehensible by 
her, for the secrecy that her father had enjoined. 

Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay 
plain before her. Her affection for Mr. Langton was 
not, indeed — nor was it possible — so strong as that she 
would have felt for a parent who had watched over her 
from her infancy. Neither was the conception, she had 
unavoidably formed of his character, such as to promise, 
that in him she would find an equivalent for all she 
must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature and 
loving heart, which otherwise would have rejoiced in a 
new object of affection, now shrank with something like 
dread from the idea of meeting her father, — stately, 
cold, and stern, as she could not but imagine him. A 
sense of duty was, therefore Ellen’s only support, in 
resolving to tread the dark path that lay before 
her. 

Had there been any person of her own sex, in whom 
Ellen felt confidence, there is little doubt that she would 
so far have disobeyed her father’s letter, as to communi¬ 
cate its contents, and take counsel as to her proceedings. 
But Mrs. Melmoth was the only female — excepting, 
indeed, the maid-servant — to whom it was possible to 
make the communication; and though Ellen at first 
thought of such a step, her timidity and her knowledge 
of the lady’s character, did not permit her to venture 
upon it. She next reviewed her acquaintances of the 
other sex; and doctor Melmoth first presented himself, 
as, in every respect but one, an unexceptionable confi¬ 
dant. But the single exception was equivalent to many. 
The maiden, with the highest opinion of the doctor’s 
learning and talents, had sufficient penetration to know, 
that in the ways of the world, she was herself the better 
skilled of the two. For a moment she thought of Ed¬ 
ward Walcott; but he was light and wild, and — which 
her delicacy made an insurmountable objection — there 
was an untold love between them. Her thoughts finally 
centered on Fanshawe. In his judgment, young and 
inexperienced though he was, she would have placed 


FANSHAWE. 89 

a firm trust, and his zeal, from whatever cause it arose, 
she could not doubt. 

If, in the short time allowed her for reflection, an op¬ 
portunity had occurred for consulting him, she would, in 
all probability, have taken advantage of it. But the 
terms on which they had parted, the preceding evening, 
had afforded him no reason to hope for her confidence; 
and he felt that there were others who had a better right 
to it than himself. He did not, therefore, throw himself 
in her way, and poor Ellen was consequently left with¬ 
out an adviser. 

The determination that resulted from her own unas¬ 
sisted wisdom, has been seen. When discovered by 
doctor Melmoth at Hugh Crombie’s inn, she was wholly 
prepared for flight, and but for the intervention of the 
storm, would, ere then, have been far away. 

The firmness of resolve, that had impelled a timid 
maiden upon such a step, was not likely to be broken 
by one defeat; and Ellen, accordingly, confident that 
the stranger would make a second attempt, determined 
that no effort on her part should be wanting to its suc¬ 
cess. On reaching her chamber, therefore, instead of 
retiring to rest (of which, from her sleepless thoughts of 
the preceding night, she stood greatly in need,) she sat 
watching for the abatement of the storm. Her medita¬ 
tions were now calmer, than at any time since her first 
meeting with the angler. She felt as if her fate was 
decided. The stain had fallen upon her reputation, — 
she was no longer the same pure being in the opinion of 
those whose approbation she most valued. 

One obstacle to her flight — and, to a woman’s mind, 
a most powerful one — had thus been removed. Dark 
and intricate as was the way, it was easier, now, to pro¬ 
ceed, than to pause; and her desperate and forlorn situ¬ 
ation gave her a strength, which hitherto she had not 
felt. 

At every cessation in the torrent of rain that beat 
against the house, Ellen flew to the window, expecting 
to see the stranger form beneath it. But the clouds 
would again thicken, and the storm recommence, with 


9° 


FANSHAWE. 


its former violence ; and she began to fear, that the ap¬ 
proach of morning would compel her to meet the now 
dreaded face of Doctor Melmoth. At length, however, 
a strong and steady wind, supplying the place of the fit¬ 
ful gusts of the preceding part of the night, broke and 
scattered the clouds from the broad expanse of the sky. 
The moon, commencing her late voyage not long before 
the sun, was now visible, setting forth like a lonely ship 
from the dark line of the horizon, and touching at many 
a little silver cloud, the islands of that aerial deep. 
Ellen felt that now the time was come; and, with a 
calmness, wonderful to herself, she prepared for her 
final departure. 

She had not long to wait, ere she saw between the 
vacancies of the trees, the angler, advancing along the 
shady avenue that led to the principal entrance of Doc¬ 
tor Melmoth’s dwelling. He had no need to summon 
her, either by word or signal; for she had descended, 
emerged from the door, and stood before him, while he 
was yet at some distance from the house. 

‘You have watched well,’ he observed, in a low, 
strange tone. ‘ As saith the scripture, many daughters 
have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.’ 

He took her arm, and they hastened down the avenue. 
Then, leaving Hugh Crombie’s Inn on their right, they 
found its master, in a spot so shaded that the moon¬ 
beams could not enlighten it. He held by the bridle 
two horses, one of which the angler assisted Ellen to 
mount. Then, turning to the landlord, he pressed a 
purse into his hand; but Hugh drew back, and it fell to 
the ground. 

‘ No; this would not have tempted me, nor will it re¬ 
ward me, he said. If you have gold to spare, there 
are some that need it more than I.’ 

‘ I understand you, mine host. I shall take thought 
for them, and enough will remain for you and me,’ re¬ 
plied his comrade. ‘ I have seen the day when such a 
purse would not have slipped between your fingers. 
Well, be it so. And now, Hugh, my old friend, a shake 
of your hand; for we are seeing our last of each other.’ 


FANSHAWE. 


9i 


‘ Pray Heaven it be so; though I wish you no ill/ 
said the landlord, giving his hand. He then seemed 
about to approach Ellen, who had been unable to dis¬ 
tinguish the words of this brief conversation; but his 
comrade prevented him. ‘ There is no time to lose,’ he 
observed. ‘ The moon is growing pale already, and we 
should have been many a mile beyond the valley, ere 
this.’ He mounted, as he spoke, and guiding Ellen’s 
rein till they reached the road, they dashed away. 

It was now that she felt herself completely in his 
power; and with that consciousness, there came a sud¬ 
den change of feeling, and an altered view of her con¬ 
duct. A thousand reasons forced themselves upon her 
mind, seeming to prove that she had been deceived ; 
while the motives, so powerful with her but a moment 
before, had either vanished from her memory, or lost all 
their efficacy. Her companion, who gazed searchingly 
into her face, where the moonlight, coming down be¬ 
tween the pines, allowed him to read its expression, 
probably discerned somewhat of the state of her 
thoughts. 

‘ Do you repent so soon ? ’ he inquired. ‘We have a 
weary way before us. Faint not ere we have well 
entered upon it.’ 

‘ I have left dear friends behind me, and am going I 
know not whither,’ replied Ellen, tremblingly. 

‘ You have a faithful guide,’ he observed ; turning 
away his head, and speaking in the tone of one who 
endeavours to smother a laugh. 

Ellen had no heart to continue the conversation ; and 
they rode on in silence, and through a wild and gloomy 
scene. The wind roared heavily through the forest, and 
the trees shed their rain drops upon the travellers. The 
road, at all times rough, was now broken into deep 
gullies, through which streams went murmuring down, 
to mingle with the river. The pale moonlight combined 
with the grey of the morning to give a ghastly and un¬ 
substantial appearance to every object. 

The difficulties of the road had been so much in¬ 
creased by the storm, that the purple eastern clouds 


92 


FANSHAWE. 


gave notice of the near approach of the sun, just as the 
travellers reached the little lonesome cottage which 
Ellen remembered to have visited several months before. 
On arriving opposite to it, her companion checked his 
horse, and gazed with a wild earnestness at the wretched 
habitation. Then, stifling a groan that would not al¬ 
together be repressed, he was about to pass on, but at 
that moment, the cottage door opened, and a woman, 
whose sour, unpleasant countenance Ellen recognized, 
came hastily forth. She seemed not to heed the travel¬ 
lers ; but the angler, his voice thrilling and quivering 
with indescribable emotion, addressed her. 

‘ Woman, whither do you go ? ’ he inquired. 

She started; but, after a momentary pause, replied, 
‘ There is one within at the point of death. She strug¬ 
gles fearfully; and I cannot endure to watch alone by 
her bedside. If you are Christians, come in with me.’ 

Ellen’s companion leaped hastily from his horse, as¬ 
sisted her also to dismount, and followed the woman 
into the cottage, having first thrown the bridles of the 
horses carelessly over the branch of a tree. Ellen 
trembled at the awful scene she would be compelled to 
witness ; but, when death was so near at hand, it was 
more terrible to stand alone in the dim morning light, 
than even to watch the parting of soul and body. She 
therefore entered the cottage. 

Her guide, his face muffled in his cloak, had taken 
his stand at a distance from the death-bed, in a part of 
the room, which neither the increasing daylight nor the 
dim rays of a solitary lamp, had yet enlightened. At 
Ellen’s entrance, the dying woman lay still, and appar¬ 
ently calm, except that a plaintive, half articulate sound 
occasionally wandered through her lips. 

‘ Hush ! For mercy’s sake, silence ! ’ whispered the 
other woman to the strangers. ‘There is good hope 
now, that she will die a peaceful death ; but, if she is 
disturbed, the boldest of us will not dare to stand by her 
bed-side.’ 

The whisper by which her sister endeavoured to pre¬ 
serve quiet, perhaps reached the ears of the dying 


FANSHAWE. 


93 


female; for she now raised herself in bed, slowly, but 
with a strength superior to what her situation promised. 
Her face was ghastly and wild, from long illness, ap¬ 
proaching death, and disturbed intellect; and a disem¬ 
bodied spirit could scarcely be a more fearful object, 
than one whose soul was just struggling forth. Her 
sister, approaching with the soft and stealing step appro¬ 
priate to the chamber of sickness and death, attempted 
to replace the covering around her, and to compose her 
again upon the pillow. ‘ Lie down and sleep, sister/ 
she said ; ‘ and when the day breaks, I will waken you. 
Methinks your breath comes freer, already. A little 
more slumber, and tomorrow you will be well/ 

‘ My illness is gone, I am well,’ said the dying woman, 
gasping for breath. ‘ I wander where the fresh breeze 
comes sweetly over my face, but a close and stifled air 
has choked my lungs/ 

‘Yet a little while, and you will no longer draw your 
breath in pain,’ observed her sister, again replacing the 
bed-clothes, which she continued to throw off. 

‘ My husband is with me/ murmured the widow. ‘ He 
walks by my side, and speaks to me as in old times; but 
his words come faintly on my ear; cheer me and com¬ 
fort me, my husband ; for there is a terror in those dim, 
motionless eyes, and in that shadowy voice/ 

As *she spoke thus, she seemed to gaze upon some 
object that stood by her bed-side, and the eyes of those 
who witnessed this scene could not but follow the direc¬ 
tion of hers. They observed that the dying woman’s 
own shadow was marked upon the wall, receiving a 
tremulous motion from the fitful rays of the lamp, and 
from her own convulsive efforts. ‘ My husband stands 
gazing on me/ she said, again ; ‘ but my son, — where 
is he ? — and, as I ask, the father turns away his face. 
Where is our son ? For his sake, I have longed to come 
to this land of rest. For him I have sorrowed many 
years. Will he not comfort me now ? ’ 

At these words, the stranger made a few hasty steps 
towards the bed; but, ere he reached it, he conquered 
the impulse that drew him thither, and, shrouding his 


94 


FANSHAWE. 


face more deeply in his cloak, returned to his former 
position. The dying woman, in the meantime, had 
thrown herself back upon the bed; and her sobbing 
and wailing, imaginary as was their cause, were inex¬ 
pressibly affecting. 

‘Take me back to earth,’ she said; ‘for its griefs 
have followed me hither.’ 

The stranger advanced, and, seizing the lamp, knelt 
down by the bed-side, throwing the light full upon his 
pale and convulsed features. 

‘ Mother, here is your son ; ’ he exclaimed. 

At that unforgotten voice, the darkness burst away 
at once from her soul. She arose in bed, her eyes and 
her whole countenance beaming with joy, and threw her 
arms about his neck. A multitude of words seemed 
struggling for utterance; but they gave place to a low 
moaning sound, and then to the silence of death. The 
one moment of happiness, that recompensed years of 
sorrow, had been her last. Her son laid the lifeless 
form upon the pillow, and gazed with fixed eyes on his 
mother’s face. 

As he looked, the expression of enthusiastic joy, that 
parting life had left upon the features, faded gradually 
away, and the countenance, though no longer wild, as¬ 
sumed the sadness which it had worn through a long 
course of grief and pain. On beholding this natural 
consequence of death, the thought perhaps occurred to 
him, that her soul, no longer dependent on the imper¬ 
fect means of intercourse possessed by mortals, had 
communed with his own, and become acquainted with 
all its guilt and misery. He started from the bed-side, 
and covered his face with his hands, as if to hide it from 
those dead eyes. 

Such a scene as has been described could not but 
have a powerful effect upon any one, who retained aught 
of humanity; and the grief of the son, whose natural 
feelings had been blunted, but not destroyed, by an evil 
life, was much more violent than his outward demeanor 
would have expressed. But his deep repentance for the 
misery he had brought upon his parent, did not produce 


FANSHAWE. 


95 


in him a resolution to do wrong no more. The sudden 
consciousness of accumulated guilt made him desperate. 
He felt as if no one had thenceforth a claim to justice or 
compassion at his hands, when his neglect and cruelty 
had poisoned his mother’s life, and hastened her death. 
Thus it was that the Devil wrought with him to his 
own destruction, reversing the salutary effect, which his 
mother would have died, exultingly, to produce upon 
his mind. He now turned to Ellen Langton, with a 
demeanour singularly calm and composed. 

* We must resume our journey,’ he said, in his usual 
tone of voice. ‘ The sun is on the point of rising, though 
but little light finds its way into this hovel.’ 

Ellen’s previous suspicions as to the character of her 
companion had now become certainty, so far as to con¬ 
vince her that she was in the power of a lawless and 
guilty man; though what fate he intended for her, she 
was unable to conjecture. An open opposition to his 
will, however, could not be ventured upon ; especially as 
she discovered, on looking round the apartment, that, 
with the exception of the corpse, they were alone. 

‘ Will you not attend your mother’s funeral ? ’ she 
asked, trembling, and conscious that he would discover 
her fears. 

‘ The dead must bury their dead,’ he replied; ‘ I have 
brought my mother to her grave; — and what can a son 
do more ? This purse, however, will serve to lay her in 
the earth, and leave something for the old hag. Whither 
is she gone ? ’ interrupted he, casting a glance round the 
room in search of the old woman. ‘ Nay, then, we must 
speedily to horse. I know her of old.’ 

Thus saying, he threw the purse upon the table, and, 
without trusting himself to look again towards the dead, 
conducted Ellen out of the cottage. The first rays of 
the sun at that moment gilded the tallest trees of the 
forest. 

On looking towards the spot where the horses had 
stood, Ellen thought that Providence, in answer to her 
prayers, had taken care for her deliverance. They were 
no longer there, — a circumstance easily accounted for, 


FANSHAWE. 


9 6 

by the haste with which the bridles had been thrown 
over the branch of the tree. Her companion, however, 
imputed it to another cause. 

‘ The hag ! She would sell her own flesh and blood 
by weight and measure,’ he muttered to himself. ‘ This 
is some plot of hers, I know well.’ 

He put his hand to his forehead, for a moment’s 
space, seeming to reflect on the course most advisable 
to be pursued. Ellen, perhaps unwisely, interposed. 

‘ Would it not be well to return ? ’ she asked, timidly. 

‘ There is now no hope of escaping; but I might yet 
reach home undiscovered.’ 

‘ Return ! ’ repeated her guide, with a look and smile 
from which she turned away her face. ‘ Have you for¬ 
gotten your father and his misfortunes ? No, no, sweet 
Ellen; it is too late for such thoughts as these.’ 

He took her hand, and led her towards the forest, in 
the rear of the cottage. She would fain have resisted; 
but they were all alone, and the attempt must have 
been both fruitless and dangerous. She therefore trod 
with him a path so devious, so faintly traced, and so 
overgrown with bushes and young trees, that only a 
most accurate acquaintance in his early days could have 
enabled her guide to retain it. To him, however, it 
seemed so perfectly familiar, that he was not once com¬ 
pelled to pause, though the numerous windings soon 
deprived Ellen of all knowledge of the situation of the 
cottage. They descended a steep hill, and proceeding 
parallel to the river — as Ellen judged by its rushing 
sound — at length found themselves at what proved to 
be the termination of their walk. 

Ellen now recollected a remark of Edward Walcott’s 
respecting the wild and rude scenery through which the 
river here kept its way; and, in less agitating circum¬ 
stances, her pleasure and admiration would have been 
great. They stood beneath a precipice, so high that 
the loftiest pine tops (and many of them seemed to soar 
to Heaven) scarcely surmounted it. This line of rock 
has a considerable extent, at unequal heights and with 
many interruptions, along the course of the river, and it 


FANSHAWE. 


97 


seems probable, that, at some former period, it was the 
boundary of the waters, though they are now confined 
within far less ambitious limits. The inferior portion of 
the crag, beneath which Ellen and her guide were stand¬ 
ing, varies so far from the perpendicular as not to be 
inaccessible by a careful footstep; but only one person 
has been known to attempt the ascent of the superior 
half, and only one the descent, yet, steep as is the 
height, trees and bushes of various kinds have clung 
to the rock, wherever their roots could gain the slight¬ 
est hold, — thus seeming to prefer the scanty and diffi¬ 
cult nourishment of the cliff, to a more luxurious life in 
the rich interval that extends from its base to the river. 
But, whether or no these hardy vegetables have volun¬ 
tarily chosen their rude resting place, the cliff is in¬ 
debted to them for much of the beauty that tempers its 
sublimity. When the eye is pained and wearied by the 
bold nakedness of the rock, it rests with pleasure on the 
cheerful foliage of the birch, or upon the darker green 
of the funereal fire. Just at the termination of the acces¬ 
sible portion of the crag, these trees are so numerous, 
and their foliage so dense, that they completely shroud 
from view a considerable excavation, formed, probably, 
hundreds of years since, by the fall of a portion of the 
rock. The detached fragment still lies at a little dis¬ 
tance from the base, grey and moss-grown, but corre¬ 
sponding, in its general outline, to the cavity from 
which it was rent. 

But the most singular and beautiful object in all this 
scene, is a tiny fount of chrystal water, that gushes 
forth from the high, smooth forehead of the cliff. Its 
perpendicular descent is of many feet; after which it 
finds its way, with a sweet, diminutive murmur, to the 
level ground. 

It is not easy to conceive, whence the barren rock 
procures even the small supply of water, that is neces¬ 
sary to the existence of this stream; it is as unaccount¬ 
able, as the gush of gentle feeling which sometimes 
proceeds from the hardest heart; but there it continues 
to flow and fall, undiminished and unincreased. The 


FANSHAWE. 


98 

stream is so slender, that the gentlest breeze suffices to 
disturb its descent, and to scatter its pure sweet waters 
over the face of the cliff. But in that deep forest, there 
is seldom a breath of wind: so that, plashing continu¬ 
ally upon one spot, the fount has worn its own little 
channel of white sand, by which it finds its way to the 
river. Alas, that the Naiades have lost their old au¬ 
thority ; for what a Deity of tiny loveliness must once 
have presided here! 

Ellen’s companion paused not to gaze either upon the 
loveliness or the sublimity of this scene, but assisting 
her where it was requisite, began the steep and difficult 
ascent of the lower part of the cliff. The maiden’s in¬ 
genuity in vain endeavoured to assign reasons for this 
movement; but when they reached the tuft of trees, 
which, as has been noticed, grew at the ultimate point 
where mortal footstep might safely tread, she perceived 
through their thick branches the recess in the rock. 
Here they entered; and her guide pointed to a mossy 
seat, in the formation of which, to judge from its regu¬ 
larity, art had probably a share. 

‘ Here you may remain in safety,’ he observed, ‘ till I 
obtain the means of proceeding, In this spot you need 
fear no intruder; but it will be dangerous to venture 
beyond its bounds.’ 

The meaning glance that accompanied these words, 
intimated to poor Ellen, that, in warning her against 
danger, he alluded to the vengeance with which he 
would visit any attempt to escape. To leave her thus 
alone, trusting to the influence of such a threat, was a 
bold, yet a necessary and by no means a hopeless 
measure. On Ellen it produced the desired effect; 
and she sat in the cave as motionless, for a time, as if 
she had herself been a part of the rock. In other cir¬ 
cumstances, this shady recess would have been a delight¬ 
ful retreat, during the sultry warmth of a summer’s day. 
The dewy coolness of the rock kept the air always fresh, 
and the sun beams never thrust themselves so as to dis¬ 
sipate the mellow twilight through the green trees with 
which the chamber was curtained. Ellen’s sleepless- 


FANSHAWE. 


99 


ness and agitation, for many preceding hours, had 
perhaps deadened her feelings; for she now felt a sort 
of indifference creeping upon her, an inability to realize 
the evils of her situation, at the same time that she was 
perfectly aware of them all. This torpor of mind in¬ 
creased, till her eyelids began to grow heavy, and the 
cave and trees to swim before her sight. In a few 
moments more, she would probably have been in dream¬ 
less slumber; but, rousing herself by a strong effort, she 
looked round the narrow limits of the cave, in search of 
objects to excite her worn-out mind. 

She now perceived, wherever the smooth rock afforded 
place for them, the initials, or the full length names, of 
former visitants of the cave. What wanderer on moun¬ 
tain-tops or in deep solitudes, has not felt the influence 
of these records of humanity, telling him, when such a 
conviction is soothing to his heart, that he is not alone 
in the world ? It was singular, that, when her own 
mysterious situation had almost lost its power to engage 
her thoughts, Ellen perused these barren memorials with 
a certain degree of interest. She went on repeating 
them aloud, and starting at the sound of her own voice, 
till at length, as one name passed through her lips, she 
paused, and then, leaning her forehead against the let¬ 
ters, burst into tears. It was the name of Edward 
Walcott; and it struck upon her heart, arousing her to 
a full sense of her present misfortunes and dangers, 
and, more painful still, of her past happiness. Her 
tears had, however, a soothing, and at the same time 
a strengthening effect upon her mind; for, when their 
gush was over, she raised her head and began to medi¬ 
tate on the means of escape. She wondered at the 
species of fascination that had kept her, as if chained 
to the rock, so long, when there was, in reality, nothing 
to bar her path-way. She determined, late as it was, to 
attempt her own deliverance; and for that purpose began 
slowly and cautiously to emerge from the cave. 

Peeping out from among the trees, she looked and 
listened with most painful anxiety, to discover if any 
living thing were in that seeming solitude, or if any 

, L.of C. 


IOO 


FANSHAWE. 


sound disturbed the heavy stillness. But she saw only 
nature in her wildest forms, and heard only the plash 
and murmur (almost inaudible, because continual) of the 
little waterfall, and the quick, short throbbing of her own 
heart, against which she pressed her hand, as if to hush 
it. Gathering courage, therefore, she began to descend ; 
and, starting often at the loose stones that even her 
light footstep displaced and sent rattling down, she at 
length reached the base of the crag in safety. She 
then made a few steps in the direction, as nearly as 
she could judge, by which she arrived at the spot; but 
paused, with a sudden revulsion of the blood to her 
heart, as her guide emerged from behind a projecting 
part of the rock. He approached her deliberately, an 
ironical smile writhing his features into a most disagree¬ 
able expression, while in his eyes there was something 
that seemed a wild, fierce joy. By a species of sophistry, 
of which oppressors often make use, he had brought 
himself to believe that he was now the injured one, and 
that Ellen, by her distrust of him, had fairly subjected 
herself to whatever evil it consisted with his will and 
power to inflict upon her. Her only restraining influence 
over him, the consciousness in his own mind that he 
possessed her confidence, was now done away. Ellen, 
as well as her enemy, felt that this was the case. She 
knew not what to dread; but she was well aware that 
danger was at hand, and that, in the deep wilderness, 
there was none to help her, except that Being, with 
whose inscrutable purposes it might consist, to allow 
the wicked to triumph for a season, and the innocent 
to be brought low. 

4 Are you so soon weary of this quiet retreat ? ’ de¬ 
manded her guide, continuing to wear the same sneer¬ 
ing smile. ‘ Or has your anxiety for your father induced 
you to set forth alone, in quest of the afflicted old man ? ’ 

‘ O, if I were but with him ! ’ exclaimed Ellen. ‘ But 
this place is lonely and fearful, and I cannot endure 
to remain here/ 

‘ Lonely, is it, sweet Ellen ? ’ he rejoined, ‘ am I not 
with you? Yes, it is lonely — lonely as guilt could 


FANSHAWE. 


ioi 


wish. Cry aloud, Ellen, and spare not. Shriek, and 
see if there be any among these rocks and woods to 
hearken to you!’ 

‘There is — there is one,’ exclaimed Ellen, shudder¬ 
ing, and affrighted at the fearful meaning of his coun¬ 
tenance. ‘ He is here— He is there ! ’ And she pointed 
to heaven. 

‘ It may be so, dearest,’ he replied. * But if there be 
an ear that hears, and an eye that sees all the evil of 
the earth, yet the arm is slow to avenge. Else why 
do I stand before you, a living man ? ’ 

‘ His vengeance may be delayed for a time, but not 
forever,’ she answered, gathering a desperate courage 
from the extremity of her fear. 

‘ You say true, lovely Ellen ; and I have done enough, 
ere now, to insure its heaviest weight. There is a pass, 
when evil deeds can add nothing to guilt, nor good ones 
take anything from it.’ 

‘ Think of your mother, — of her sorrow through 
life, and perhaps even after death,’ Ellen began to say. 
But as she spoke these words, the expression of his face 
was changed, becoming suddenly so dark and fiend-like, 
that she clasped her hands, and fell on her knees be¬ 
fore him. 

‘ I have thought of my mother,’ he replied, speak¬ 
ing very low, and putting his face close to hers. ‘ I 
remember the neglect — the wrong — the lingering and 
miserable death, that she received at my hands. By 
what claim can either man or woman henceforth expect 
mercy from me? If God will help you, be it so; but 
by those words you have turned my heart to stone.’ 

At this period of their conversation, when Ellen’s 
peril seemed most imminent, the attention of both was 
attracted by a fragment of rock, which, falling from the 
summit of the crag, struck very near them. Ellen started 
from her knees, and, with her false guide, gazed eagerly 
upward; he in the fear of interruption, she in the hope 
of deliverance. 


102 


FANSHAWE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

At length, he cries, behold the fated spring ! 

Yon rugged cliff conceals the fountain blest, 

Dark rocks its chrystal source o’ershadowing. 

Psyche. 

The tale now returns to Fanshawe, who, as will be 
recollected, after being overtaken by Edward Walcott, 
was left with little apparent prospect of aiding in the 
deliverance of Ellen Langton. 

It would be difficult to analyze the feelings with 
which the student pursued the chase, or to decide 
whether he was influenced and animated by the same 
hopes of successful love, that cheered his rival. That 
he was conscious of such hopes, there is little reason to 
suppose; for the most powerful minds are not always 
the best acquainted with their own feelings. Had Fan¬ 
shawe, moreover, acknowledged to himself the possibility 
of gaining Ellen’s affections, his generosity would have 
induced him to refrain from her society, before it was 
too late. He had read her character with accuracy, and 
had seen how fit she was to love, and to be loved by 
a man who could find his happiness in the common 
occupations of the world ; and Fanshawe never deceived 
himself so far, as to suppose that this would be the case 
with him. Indeed, he often wondered at the passion, 
with which Ellen’s simple loveliness of mind and person 
had inspired him, and which seemed to be founded on 
the principle of contrariety, rather than of sympathy. 
It was the yearning of a soul, formed by Nature in a 
peculiar mould, for communion with those to whom it 
bore a resemblance, yet of whom it was not. But there 
was no reason to suppose that Ellen, who differed from 
the multitude only as being purer and better, would cast 
away her affections on the one, of all who surrounded 
her least fitted to make her happy. Thus Fanshawe 
reasoned with himself, and of this he believed that he 
was convinced. Yet, ever and anon, he found himself 
involved in a dream of bliss, of which Ellen was to be 


FANSHAWE. 


103 


the giver and the sharer. Then would he rouse himself, 
and press upon his mind the chilling consciousness, that 
it was, and could be, but a dream. There was also 
another feeling, apparently discordant with those which 
have been enumerated. It was a longing for rest, — for 
his old retirement, that came at intervals so powerfully 
upon him, as he rode on, that his heart sickened of the 
active exertion on which fate had thrust him. 

After being overtaken by Edward Walcott, Fanshawe 
continued his journey with as much speed as was attain¬ 
able by his wearied horse, but at a pace infinitely too 
slow for his earnest thoughts. These had carried him 
far away, leaving him only such a consciousness of his 
present situation as to make diligent use of the spur, 
when a horse’s tread, at no great distance, struck upon 
his ear. He looked forward, and behind; but, though 
a considerable extent of the narrow, rocky, and grass- 
grown road was visible, he was the only traveller there. 
Yet again he heard the sound, which, he now discovered, 
proceeded from among the trees that lined the roadside. 
Alighting, he entered the forest, with the intention, if 
the steed proved to be disengaged and superior to his 
own, of appropriating him to his own use. He soon 
gained a view of the object he sought; but the animal 
rendered a closer acquaintance unattainable, by imme¬ 
diately taking to his heels. Fanshawe had however 
made a most interesting discovery; for the horse was 
accoutred with a side-saddle ; and who, but Ellen Lang- 
ton, could have been his rider? At this conclusion, 
though his perplexity was thereby in no degree dimin¬ 
ished, the student immediately arrived. Returning to 
the road, and perceiving on the summit of the hill a 
cottage, which he recognized as the one he had entered 
with Ellen and Edward Walcott, he determined there to 
make inquiry respecting the objects of his pursuit. 

On reaching the door of the poverty-stricken dwelling, 
he saw that it was not now so desolate of inmates as on 
his previous visit. In the single inhabitable apartment 
were several elderly women, clad evidently in their well- 
worn and well-saved Sunday clothes, and all wearing a 


104 


FANSHAWE. 


deep-grievous expression of countenance. Fanshawe 
was not long in deciding, that death was within the 
cottage, and that these aged females were of the class 
who love the house of mourning, because to them it is 
a house of feasting. It is a fact, disgusting and lamen¬ 
table, that the disposition which heaven for the best of 
purposes has implanted in the female breast — to watch 
by the sick and comfort the afflicted, frequently becomes 
depraved into an odious love of scenes of pain, and 
death, and sorrow. Such women are like the Gouls 
of the Arabian Tales, whose feasting was among tomb¬ 
stones, and upon dead carcasses. 

(It is sometimes, though less frequently, the case, 
that this disposition to make a ‘joy of grief’ extends to 
individuals of the other sex. But in us it is even less 
excusable and more disgusting, because it is our nature 
to shun the sick and afflicted; and, unless restrained by 
principles other than we bring into the world with us, 
men might follow the example of many animals in 
destroying the infirm of their own species. Indeed, 
instances of this nature might be adduced among savage 
nations.) Sometimes, however, from an original lusns 
natures , or from the influence of circumstances, a man 
becomes a haunter of death-beds, — a tormentor of 
afflicted hearts, — and a follower of funerals. Such 
an abomination now appeared before Fanshawe, and 
beckoned him into the cottage. He was considerably 
beyond the middle age, rather corpulent, with a broad, 
fat, tallow complexioned countenance. The student 
obeyed his silent call, and entered the room, through 
the open door of which he had been gazing. 

He now beheld, stretched out upon the bed, where 
she had so lately laid in life, though dying, the yet 
uncofflned corpse of the aged woman, whose death has 
been described. How frightful it seemed ! — that fixed 
countenance of ashy paleness, amid its decorations of 
muslin and fine linen, — as if a bride were decked for 
the marriage chamber, — as if death were a bridegroom, 
and the coffin a bridal bed. Alas that the vanity of 
dress should extend even to the grave! 


FANSHAWE. 


io 5 


The female, who, as being the near and only relative 
of the deceased, was supposed to stand in need of com¬ 
fort, was surrounded by five or six of her own sex. 
These continually poured into her ear the stale, trite 
maxims, which, where consolation is actually required, 
add torture insupportable to the wounded heart. Their 
present object, however, conducted herself with all due 
decorum, holding her handkerchief to her tearless eyes, 
and answering with very grievous groans to the words 
of her comforters. Who could have imagined that 
there was joy in her heart, because, since her sister’s 
death, there was but one remaining obstacle between 
herself and the sole property of that wretched cottage ? 

While Fanshawe stood silently observing this scene, 
a low, monotonous voice was uttering some words in 
his ear, of the meaning of which his mind did not 
immediately take note. He turned, and saw that the 
speaker was the person who had invited him to enter. 

4 What is your pleasure with me, Sir ? ’ demanded 
the student. 

‘I make bold to ask,’ replied the man, ‘whether you 
would choose to partake of some creature comfort, 
before joining in prayer with the family and friends 
of our deceased sister ? ’ As he spoke, he pointed to a 
table, on which was a moderate sized stone jug, and two 
or three broken glasses; for then, as now, there were 
few occasions of joy or grief on which ardent spirits 
were not considered indispensable, to heighten the one, 
or to alleviate the other. 

‘ I stand in no need of refreshment,’ answered Fan¬ 
shawe ; ‘ and it is not my intention to pray at present.’ 

‘ I pray your pardon, reverend sir,’ rejoined the 
other; ‘but your face is pale, and you look wearied. 
A drop from yonder vessel is needful to recruit the out¬ 
ward man. And for the prayer, the sisters will expect 
it, and their souls are longing for the outpouring of the 
spirit. I was intending to open my own mouth, with 
such words as are given to my poor ignorance, but ’ — 

Fanshawe was here about to interrupt this address, 
which proceeded on the supposition, arising from his 


o6 


FANSHAWE. 


black dress and thoughtful countenance, that he was 
a clergyman. But one of the females now approached 
him, and intimated that the sister of the deceased was 
desirous of the benefit of his conversation. He would 
have returned a negative to this request, but, looking 
towards the afflicted woman, he saw her withdraw her 
handkerchief from her eyes, and cast a brief, but pene¬ 
trating and most intelligent, glance upon him. He 
immediately expressed his readiness to offer such con¬ 
solation as might be in his power. 

‘ And in the mean time,’ observed the lay-preacher, 
‘ I will give the sisters to expect a word of prayer and 
exhortation, either from you or from myself.’ 

These words were lost upon the supposed clergyman, 
who was already at the side of the mourner. The 
females withdrew out of ear-shot, to give place to a 
more legitimate comforter than themselves. 

‘ What know you respecting my purpose ? ’ inquired 
Fanshawe, bending towards her. 

The woman gave a groan — the usual result of all 
efforts at consolation — for the edification of the com¬ 
pany; and then replied in a whisper, which reached 
only the ear for which it was intended. ‘ I know whom 
you come to seek, — I can direct you to them. Speak 
low, for God’s sake,’ she continued, observing that Fan¬ 
shawe was about to utter an exclamation. She then 
resumed her groans with greater zeal than before. 

‘ Where — where are they ? ’ asked the student, in a 
whisper which all his efforts could scarcely keep below 
his breath. ‘ I adjure you to tell me.’ 

* And, if I should, how am I like to be bettered by it ? ’ 
inquired the old woman, her speech still preceded and 
followed by a groan. 

‘ O God ! — The ‘ auri sacra fames! ’ thought Fan¬ 
shawe with a sickening heart, looking at the motionless 
corpse upon the bed, and then at the wretched being, 
whom the course of nature, in comparatively a moment 
of time, would reduce to the same condition. 

He whispered again, however, putting his purse into 
the hag’s hand. ‘ Take this. Make your own terms 


FANSHAWE. 


107 

when they are discovered. Only tell me where I must 
seek them, — and speedily, or it may be too late.’ 

‘ I am a poor woman, and am afflicted,’ said she, tak¬ 
ing the purse, unseen by any who were in the room. 
‘ It is little that worldly goods can do for me, and not 
long can I enjoy them,’ and here she was delivered of 
a louder, and a more heartfelt groan than ever. She 
then continued, ‘Follow the path behind the cottage, 
that leads to the river side. Walk along the foot of the 
rock, and search for them near the water-spout; keep 
a slow pace till you are out of sight,’ she added, as the 
student started to his feet. 

The guests of the cottage did not attempt to oppose 
Fanshawe’s progress, when they saw him take the path 
towards the forest, imagining, probably, that he was 
retiring for the purpose of secret prayer. But the old 
woman laughed behind the handkerchief with which 
she veiled her face. 

‘Take heed of your steps, boy,’ she muttered; ‘for 
they are leading you whence you will not return. Death 
too, for the slayer. Be it so.’ 

Fanshawe, in the mean while, continued to discover, 
and, for a while, to retain, the narrow and winding path 
that led to the river side. But it was originally no more 
than a track, by which the cattle belonging to the cot¬ 
tage went down to their watering-place; and by these 
four-footed passengers it had long been deserted. The 
fern-bushes, therefore, had grown over it, and in several 
places, trees of considerable size had shot up in the 
midst. These difficulties could scarcely have been sur¬ 
mounted by the utmost caution; and as Fanshawe’s 
thoughts were too deeply fixed upon the end, to pay a 
due regard to the means, he soon became desperately 
bewildered, both as to the locality of the river, and of 
the cottage. Had he known, however, in which direc¬ 
tion to seek the latter, he would not, probably, have 
turned back; not that he was infected by any chival¬ 
rous desire to finish the adventure alone; but because 
he would expect little assistance from those he had left 
there. — Yet he could not but wonder — though he had 


io8 


FANSHAWE. 


not in his first eagerness taken notice of it — at the 
anxiety of the old woman that he should proceed singly, 
and without the knowledge of her guests, on the search. 
He nevertheless continued to wander on, — pausing often 
to listen for the rush of the river, and then starting for¬ 
ward, with fresh rapidity, to rid himself of the sting of 
his own thoughts, which became painfully intense, when 
undisturbed by bodily motion. His way was now fre¬ 
quently interrupted by rocks, that thrust their huge 
grey heads from the ground, compelling him to turn 
aside, and thus depriving him, fortunately perhaps, of 
all remaining idea of the direction he had intended to 
pursue. 

Thus he went on — his head turned back, and taking 
little heed to his footsteps — when, perceiving that he 
trod upon a smooth, level rock, he looked forward, and 
found himself almost on the utmost verge of a precipice. 

After the throbbing of the heart that followed this nar¬ 
row escape had subsided, he stood gazing down where 
the sun-beams slept so pleasantly at the roots of the tall 
old trees, with whose highest tops he was upon a level. 
Suddenly he seemed to hear voices — one well remem¬ 
bered voice — ascending from beneath ; and approach¬ 
ing to the edge of the cliff, he saw at its base the two 
whom he sought. 

He saw and interpreted Ellen’s look and attitude of 
entreaty, though the words with which she sought to 
soften the ruthless heart of her guide, became inaudible, 
ere they reached the height where Fanshawe stood. He 
felt that Heaven had sent him thither, at the moment of 
her utmost need, to be the preserver of all that was dear 
to him, and he paused only to consider the mode in 
which her deliverance was to be effected. Life he would 
have laid down willingly — exultingly ; — his only care 
was, that the sacrifice should not be in vain. 

At length, when Ellen fell upon her knees, he lifted 
a small fragment of rock, and threw it down the cliff. 
It struck so near the pair, that it immediately drew the 
attention of both. 

When the betrayer — at the instant in which he had 


FANSHAWE. 


109 

almost defied the power of the Omnipotent to bring 
help to Ellen — became aware of Fanshawe’s presence, 
his hardihood failed him for a time, and his knees 
actually tottered beneath him. There was something 
awfuf, to his apprehension, in the slight form that stood 
so far above him, like a being from another sphere, look¬ 
ing down upon his wickedness. But his half supersti¬ 
tious dread endured only a moment’s space; and then, 
mustering the courage that in a thousand dangers had 
not deserted him, he prepared to revenge the intrusion 
by which Fanshawe had a second time interrupted his 
designs. 

4 By Heaven, I will cast him down at her feet! ’ he 
muttered through his closed teeth. ‘ There shall be no 
form nor likeness of man left in him. Then let him rise 
up, if he is able, and defend her.’ 

Thus resolving, and overlooking all hazard, in his 
eager hatred, and desire for vengeance, he began a des¬ 
perate attempt to ascend the cliff. The space, which 
only had hitherto been deemed accessible, was quickly 
past, and in a moment more he was half way up the 
precipice, clinging to trees, shrubs, and projecting por¬ 
tions of the rock, and escaping through hazards which 
seemed to menace inevitable destruction. 

Fanshawe, as he watched his upward progress, deemed 
that every step would be his last; but when he perceived 
that more than half, and apparently, the most difficult 
part, of the ascent was surmounted, his opinion changed. 
His courage, however, did not fail him, as the moment 
of need drew nigh. His spirits rose buoyantly, his limbs 
seemed to grow firm and strong, and he stood on the 
edge of the precipice, prepared for the death-struggle 
which would follow the success of his enemy’s attempt. 

But that attempt was not successful. When within a 
few feet of the summit, the adventurer grasped at a twig, 
too slenderly rooted to sustain his weight. It gave way 
in his hand, and he fell backward down the precipice. 
His head struck against the less perpendicular part of 
the rock, whence the body rolled heavily down to the 
detached fragment, of which mention has heretofore 


no 


FANSHAWE. 


been made. There was no life left in him. With all 
the passions of hell alive in his heart, he had met the 
fate that he intended for Fanshawe. 

The student paused not, then, to shudder at the sud¬ 
den and awful overthrow of his enemy, for he saw that 
Ellen lay motionless at the foot of the cliff. She had, 
indeed, fainted, at the moment she became aware of her 
deliverer’s presence,—and no stronger proof could she 
have given of her firm reliance upon his protection. 

Fanshawe was not deterred by the danger, of which 
he had just received so fearful an evidence, from attempt¬ 
ing to descend to her assistance; and, whether owing to 
his advantage in lightness of frame, or to superior cau¬ 
tion, he arrived safely at the base of the precipice. 

He lifted the motionless form of Ellen in his arms, 
and resting her head against his shoulder, gazed on her 
cheek of lily paleness, with a joy — a triumph — that 
rose almost to madness. It contained no mixture of 
hope, it had no reference to the future, — it was the 
perfect bliss of a moment, — an insulated point of hap¬ 
piness. He bent over her and pressed a kiss — the first, 
and he knew it would be the last—on her pale lips; 
then, bearing her to the fountain, he sprinkled its waters 
profusely over her face, neck, and bosom. She at length 
opened her eyes, slowly and heavily; but her mind was 
evidently wandering, till Fanshawe spoke. 

‘ Fear not, Ellen ; you are safe,’ he said. 

At the sound of his voice, her arm, which was thrown 
over his shoulder, involuntarily tightened its embrace, 
telling him, by that mute motion, with how firm a trust 
she confided in him. But, as a fuller sense of her situ¬ 
ation returned, she raised herself to her feet, though still 
retaining the support of his arm. It was singular, that, 
although her insensibility had commenced before the 
fall of her guide, she turned away her eyes, as if instinc¬ 
tively, from the spot where the mangled body lay; nor 
did she inquire of Fanshawe the manner of her 
deliverance. 

‘ Let us begone from this place,’ she said in faint, low 
accents, and with an inward shudder. 


FANSHAWE. 


111 


They walked along the precipice, seeking some pas¬ 
sage by which they might gain its summit, and at length 
arrived at that by which Ellen and her guide had de¬ 
scended. Chance, — for neither Ellen nor Fanshawe 
could have discovered the path, — led them, after but 
little wandering, to the cottage. A messenger was sent 
forward to the town, to inform Dr. Melmoth of the recov¬ 
ery of his ward; and the intelligence thus received had 
interrupted Edward Walcott’s conversation with the 
seaman. 

It would have been impossible, in the mangled remains 
of Ellen’s guide, to discover the son of the widow Butler, 
except from the evidence of her sister, who became, by 
his death, the sole inheritrix of the cottage. The his¬ 
tory of this evil and unfortunate man must be comprised 
within very narrow limits. A harsh father, and his own 
untameable disposition, had driven him from home in 
his boyhood, and chance had made him the temporary 
companion of Hugh Crombie. After two years of wan¬ 
dering, when in a foreign country and in circumstances 
of utmost need, he attracted the notice of Mr. Langton. 
The merchant took his young countryman under his 
protection, afforded him advantages of education, and, 
as his capacity was above mediocrity, gradually trusted 
him in many affairs of importance. During this period, 
there was no evidence of dishonesty on his part. On 
the contrary, he manifested a zeal for Mr. Langton’s 
interest, and a respect for his person, that proved his 
strong sense of the benefits he had received. But he 
unfortunately fell into certain youthful indiscretions, 
which, if not entirely pardonable, might have been 
palliated by many considerations that would have oc¬ 
curred to a merciful man. Mr. Langton’s justice, how¬ 
ever, was seldom tempered by mercy; and on this 
occasion, he shut the door of repentance against his 
erring proteg6, and left him in a situation not less 
desperate than that from which he had relieved him. 
The goodness and the nobleness, of which his heart 
was not destitute, turned, from that time, wholly to 
evil, and he became irrecoverably ruined and irreclaim- 


I 12 


FANSHAWE. 


ably depraved. His wandering life had led him, shortly 
before the period of this tale, to his native country. 
Here the erroneous intelligence of Mr. Langton’s death 
had reached him, and suggested the scheme, which cir¬ 
cumstances seemed to render practicable, but the fatal 
termination of which has been related. 

The body was buried where it had fallen, close by 
the huge, gray, moss-grown fragment of rock, — a monu¬ 
ment on which centuries can work little change. The 
eighty years that have elapsed since the death of the 
widow’s son have, however, been sufficient to obliterate 
an inscription, which some one was at the pains to cut 
in the smooth surface of the stone. Traces of letters 
are still discernible; but the writer’s many efforts could 
never discover a connected meaning. The grave, also, 
is overgrown with fern bushes, and sunk to a level with 
the surrounding soil. But the legend, though my ver¬ 
sion of it may be forgotten, will long be traditionary in 
that lonely spot, and give to the rock and the precipice, 
and the fountain, an interest thrilling to the bosom of 
the romantic wanderer. 


CHAPTER X. 

Sitting then in shelter shady, 

To observe and mark his mone, 

Suddenly I saw a Lady 
Hasting to him all alone, 

Clad in maiden-white and green, 

Whom I judg’d the Forrest Queen. 

The woodman’s bear. 

During several weeks succeeding her danger and 
deliverance, Ellen Langton was confined to her cham¬ 
ber, by illness, resulting from the agitation she had 
endured. Her father embraced the earliest opportu¬ 
nity to express his deep gratitude to Fanshawe for the 
inestimable service he had rendered, and to intimate a 
desire to requite it, to the utmost of his power. He had 



FANSHAWE. 


11 3 

understood that the student’s circumstances were not 
prosperous, and, with the feeling of one who was habit¬ 
uated to give and receive a ‘quid pro quo,’ he would 
have rejoiced to share his abundance with the deliverer 
of his daughter. But Fanshawe’s flushed brow and 
haughty eye, when he perceived the thought that was 
stirring in Mr. Langton’s mind, sufficiently proved to 
the discerning merchant, that money was not in the 
present instance a circulating medium. His penetra¬ 
tion, in fact, very soon informed him of the motives by 
which the young man had been actuated, in risking his 
life for Ellen Langton; but he made no allusion to the 
subject,—concealing his intentions, if any he had, in 
his own bosom. 

During Ellen’s illness, Edward Walcott had mani¬ 
fested the deepest anxiety respecting her; he had wan¬ 
dered around and within the house, like a restless ghost, 
informing himself of the slightest fluctuation in her 
health, and thereby graduating his happiness or misery. 
He was at length informed that her convalescence had 
so far progressed, that, on the succeeding day, she 
would venture below. From that time, Edward’s visits 
to Doctor Melmoth’s mansion were relinquished; — his 
cheek grew pale, and his eye lost its merry light, — but 
he resolutely kept himself a banished man. Multifari¬ 
ous were the conjectures to which this course of con¬ 
duct gave rise; but Ellen understood and approved his 
motives. The maiden must have been far more blind 
than ever woman was, in such a matter, if the late 
events had not convinced her of Fanshawe’s devoted 
attachment; and she saw that Edward Walcott, feeling 
the superior, the irresistible strength of his rival’s claim, 
had retired from the field. Fanshawe, however, dis¬ 
covered no intention to pursue his advantage. He paid 
her no voluntary visit, and even declined an invitation 
to tea, with which Mrs. Melmoth, after extensive prepa¬ 
rations, had favoured him. He seemed to have resumed 
all the habits of seclusion, by which he was distinguished 
previous to his acquaintance with Ellen, — except that 
he still took his sunset walk, on the banks of the stream. 


FANSHAWE. 


114 

On one of these occasions, he stayed his footsteps by 
the old leafless oak, which had witnessed Ellen’s first 
meeting with the angler. Here he mused upon the cir¬ 
cumstances that had resulted from that event, and upon 
the rights and privileges — for he was well aware of 
them all — which those circumstances had given him. 
Perhaps the loveliness of the scene and the recollections 
connected with it, — perhaps the warm and mellow sun¬ 
set,— perhaps a temporary weakness in himself, had 
softened his feelings, and shaken the firmness of his 
resolution, to leave Ellen to be happy with his rival. 
His strong affections rose up against his reason, whis¬ 
pering that bliss, — on earth and in Heaven, through 
time and Eternity, — might yet be his lot with her. It 
is impossible to conceive of the flood of momentary joy, 
which the bare admission of such a possibility sent 
through his frame; and, just when the tide was highest 
in his heart, a soft little hand was laid upon his own, 
and, starting, he beheld Ellen at his side. 

Her illness, since the commencement of which, Fan- 
shawe had not seen her, had wrought a considerable, 
but not a disadvantageous change in her appearance. 
She was paler and thinner, — her countenance was more 
intellectual — more spiritual, — and a spirit did the stu¬ 
dent almost deem her, appearing so suddenly in that 
solitude. There was a quick vibration of the delicate 
blood in her cheek, yet never brightening to the glow 
of perfect health; a tear was glittering on each of her 
long dark eyelashes; and there was a gentle tremor 
through all her frame, which compelled her, for a little 
space, to support herself against the oak. Fanshawe’s 
first impulse was, to address her in words of rapturous 
delight; but he checked himself, and attempted — 
vainly, indeed — to clothe his voice in tones of calm 
courtesy. His remark merely expressed pleasure at 
her restoration to health; and Ellen’s low and indis¬ 
tinct reply had as little relation to the feelings that agi¬ 
tated her. 

‘ Yet I fear,’ continued Fanshawe, recovering a degree 
of composure, and desirous of assigning a motive (which 


FANSHAWE. 


”5 


he felt was not the true one) for Ellen’s agitation,— 
‘ I fear that your walk has extended too far for your 
strength.’ 

‘ It would have borne me farther, with such a motive,’ 
she replied, still trembling, — ‘ to express my gratitude 
to my preserver.’ 

‘ It was needless Ellen, it was needless; for the deed 
brought with it its own reward,’ exclaimed Fanshawe, 
with a vehemence that he could not repress. ‘ It was 
dangerous, for’ — 

Here he interrupted himself, and turned his face 
away. 

‘ And wherefore was it dangerous ? ’ inquired Ellen, 
laying her hand gently on his arm ; for he seemed about 
to leave her. 

‘ Because you have a tender and generous heart, and 
I a weak one,’ he replied. 

‘ Not so,’ answered she, with animation. ‘Yours is a 
heart full of strength and nobleness ; and if it have a 
weakness ’ — 

‘You know well that it has, Ellen, — one that has 
swallowed up all its strength,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Was it 
wise, then, to tempt it thus — when, if it yield, the result 
must be your own misery ? ’ 

Ellen did not affect to misunderstand his meaning. 
On the contrary, with a noble frankness, she answered 
to what was implied rather than expressed. 

‘ Do me not this wrong,’ she said, blushing, yet ear¬ 
nestly. ‘ Can it be misery — will it not be happiness to 
form the tie that shall connect you to the world ? — to 
be your guide — a humble one, it is true, but the one of 
your choice — to the quiet paths, from which your proud 
and lonely thoughts have estranged you ? Oh ! I know 
that there will be happiness in such a lot, from these and 
a thousand other sources.’ 

The animation with which Ellen spoke, and, at the 
same time, a sense of the singular course to which her 
gratitude had impelled her, caused her beauty to grow 
brighter and more enchanting with every word. And 
when, as she concluded, she extended her hand to Fan- 


FANSHAWE. 


ii 6 

shawe, to refuse it was like turning from an angel, who 
would have guided him to heaven. But, had he been 
capable of making the woman he loved a sacrifice to 
her own generosity, that act would have rendered him 
unworthy of her. Yet the struggle was a severe one, 
ere he could reply. 

‘ You have spoken generously and nobly, Ellen/ he 
said. ‘ I have no way to prove that I deserve your gen¬ 
erosity, but by refusing to take advantage of it. Even 
if your heart were yet untouched, — if no being, more 
happily constituted than myself, had made an impression 
there, — even then, I trust, a selfish passion would not 
be stronger than my integrity. But now,’ — He would 
have proceeded, but the firmness, which had hitherto 
sustained him, gave way. He turned aside to hide the 
tears, which all the pride of his nature could not restrain, 
and which, instead of relieving, added to his anguish. 
At length he resumed. ‘ No, Ellen, we must part now 
and forever. Your life will be long and happy. Mine 
will be short, but not altogether wretched, —nor shorter 
than if we had never met. When you hear that I am in 
my grave, do not imagine that you have hastened me 
thither. Think that you scattered bright dreams around 
my path-way, — an ideal happiness, that you would have 
sacrificed your own to realize.’ 

He ceased; and Ellen felt that his determination was 
unalterable. She could not speak; but, taking his hand, 
she pressed it to her lips; and they saw each other no 
more. Mr. Langton and his daughter, shortly after re¬ 
turned to the sea-port, which, for several succeeding 
years, was their residence. 

After Ellen’s departure, Fanshawe returned to his 
studies with the same absorbing ardour, that had 
formerly characterized him. His face was as seldom 
seen among the young and gay; — the pure breeze and 
the blessed sun-shine as seldom refreshed his pale and 
weary brow ; and his lamp burned as constantly from 
the first shade of evening till the grey morning light be¬ 
gan to dim its beams. Nor did he, as weak men will, 
treasure up his love in a hidden chamber of his breast. 


FANSHAWE. 


11 7 


He was in reality the thoughtful and earnest student 
that he seemed. He had exerted the whole might of 
his spirit over itself, — and he was a conqueror. Per¬ 
haps, indeed, a summer breeze of sad and gentle 
thoughts would sometimes visit him; but, in these brief 
memories of his love, he did not wish that it should be 
revived, or mourn over its event. 

There were many who felt an interest in Fanshawe; 
but the influence of none could prevail upon him to lay 
aside the habits, mental and physical, by which he was 
bringing himself to the grave. His passage thither was 
consequently rapid, — terminating just as he reached 
his twentieth year. His fellow students erected to his 
memory a monument of rough-hewn granite, with a 
white marble slab, for the inscription. This was bor¬ 
rowed from the grave of Nathanael Mather, whom, in 
his almost insane eagerness for knowledge and in his 
early death, Fanshawe resembled. 

THE ASHES OF A HARD STUDENT AND A GOOD SCHOLAR. 

Many tears were shed over his grave; but the 
thoughtful and the wise, though turf never covered a 
nobler heart, could not lament that it was so soon at 
rest. He left a world for which he was unfit; and we 
trust, that, among the innumerable stars of heaven, 
there is one where he has found happiness. 

Of the other personages of this tale,— Hugh Crom- 
bie, being exposed to no strong temptations, lived and 
died an honest man. Concerning Doctor Melmoth, it is 
unnecessary here to speak. The reader, if he have any 
curiosity upon the subject, is referred to his life, which, 
together with several sermons and other productions of 
the Doctor, was published by his successor in the Presi¬ 
dency of Harley College, about the year 1768. 

It was not till four years after Fanshawe’s death, that 
Edward Walcott was united to Ellen Langton. Their 
future lives were uncommonly happy. Ellen’s gentle, 
almost imperceptible, but powerful influence, drew her 
husband away from the passions and pursuits that would 


118 


FANSHAWE. 


have interfered with domestic felicity; and he never re¬ 
gretted the worldly distinction of which she thus deprived 
him. Theirs was a long life of calm and quiet bliss; — 
and what matters it, that, except in these pages, they 
have left no name behind them ? 

Errata. 

The author requests the reader’s favourable construc¬ 
tion of several errors, chiefly of orthography and punc¬ 
tuation, which have escaped the press. The following 
effect the sense. 

Page 36 lines 33-34, for ‘ atmosphere of the Sun ’ read 
‘ atmosphere of an Inn.’ Page 69, line 36, for ‘ Glear- 
dallen’ read ‘Glumdalea.’ Page 75, line 21, for ‘fool’ 
read ‘foe.’ Page 80, line 28, for ‘pitting’ read ‘jut¬ 
ting.’ Page 107, line 22, for ‘continued’ read ‘con¬ 
trived.’ 


THE WHOLE HISTORY 


OF 

GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


BY 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 




WITH AN INTRODUCTION 

BY 

KATHARINE LEE BATES 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN WELLESLEY COLLEGE 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


THF LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 
Cop*ts Received 

AUG 20 190? 


Copyright entry 


'Ll C~L 
CLASS 'CC XX o. No, 


tf 6 0 0 0 

CORY B. 


Copyright, 1898 and 1902, 

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 






CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Introduction .v 

Preface .xxi 

GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 
PART I 

CHAPTER 

I. I 

II. 4 

III .12 

IV .1 7 

V. 22 

VI.26 

VII.31 

VIII.36 

IX .42 

X . 47 

XI. 54 

0 i 

PART II 

1. 58 

II.60 

III .65 

IV .70 

V .76 

VI. 8 s 

VII. 90 

iii 





























IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

VIII. 97 

IX.106 

X. hi 

PART III 

1.116 

II.119 

III .124 

IV .132 

V .137 

VI .143 

VII .149 

VIII.154 

IX .160 

X .166 

XI.173 

BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 

1.181 

II. Benjamin West.184 

III. Sir Isaac Newton.195 

IV. Samuel Johnson.203 

V. Samuel Johnson.209 

VI. Oliver Cromwell.213 

VII. Benjamin Franklin.222 

VIII. Benjamin Franklin.229 

IX. Queen Christina.235 























INTRODUCTION 


This volume comprises the four books for children 
issued by Hawthorne in 1841 and 1842. The first 
(1841) was entitled Grandfather's Chair: A History for 
Youth. Two others appeared in 1841, entitled respec¬ 
tively — Famous Old People: Being the Second Epoch 
of Grandfather's Chair; and Liberty Tree , with the Last 
Words of Grandfather's Chair. Biographical Stories 
for Children came out in 1842. These four books were 
also published together, in two volumes, in 1842, with 
the title Historical Tales for Youth printed upon the 
backs of the covers. In 1851 the four were issued again, 
by Ticknor, Reed and Fields of Boston, as True Stories 
from History and Biography. In 1853 a London edition 
was brought out, under the same title, by the house of 
Sampson Low, Son, & Co. These later editions do not 
deviate from the first, except in title-page and in the 
dropping of the prefaces to Famous Old People and 
Liberty Tree. It is true that the second edition of Grand¬ 
fathers Chair , issued by Tappan .and Dennet of Boston, 
in 1842, announces itself as “Revised and Enlarged,” 
but the text follows, paragraph by paragraph, that of the 
original edition. An artist has been called in, however, 
to supply a frontispiece representing an old-fashioned, 
claw-footed chair, most gloriously foliaged and figured, 
and, later on, a picture of Lady Arbella drooping in its 
carven arms, the lion’s head above wearing a sympathetic 
and solicitous expression. Even in the frontispiece it is 
only a courtesy lion, his “ savage grin ” having been 
much mollified, presumably by listening to the stories. 

We owe these books, in a sense, to Samuel G. Good¬ 
rich, “Peter Parley,” to whose Boston annual, The Token y 
Hawthorne contributed tales and essays from 1831 (pos¬ 
sibly from 1830) on through 1838, with the exception of 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


1834. Twice-Told Tales , Mosses from an Old Manse, 
and The Snow Image now bear immortal witness to the 
beauty of those anonymous and ill-paid contributions. 
Hawthorne, in the opinion of his friend Horatio Bridge, 
was more grateful to Goodrich for such initiation into 
the literary arena than was at all necessary, although 
when Bridge met the publisher, he liked him better than 
he had intended. 

“ Peter Parley ” was the son of a Connecticut min¬ 
ister, so shrewd a parson that, in those frugal times, he 
reared a family of eight children on a salary which 
never exceeded five hundred dollars a year, and left an 
estate valued at four thousand. The son Samuel was 
thought to be of a mechanical turn, and his early educa¬ 
tion was limited to the three R’s. He was not an imagi¬ 
native child. He resented nursery rhymes and fairy 
stories, and the first book that he read with “ real enthu¬ 
siasm” was Hannah More’s Moral Repository. As a 
clerk in a country store, his opportunities for culture did 
not increase with his growth, although he picked up for 
himself a few odds and ends of Latin, French, and 
mathematics. At the age of twenty-three he went into 
the bookselling and publishing business at Hartford and 
promptly showed his faith in American literature by 
bringing out Trumbull’s poems, — a venture in which he 
lost a thousand doll|irs. His growing resolution to 
develop a line of American books for children was con¬ 
firmed by a trip to England and a call on Hannah More,— 
a visit, as he termed it, “ almost like a pilgrimage to the 
shrine of some divinity.” In the course of his conversa¬ 
tion with her, he says, he “first formed the conception of 
the Parley Tales, the general idea of which was to make 
nursery books reasonable and truthful.” In 1826 Mr. 
Goodrich removed his business to Boston, where he did 
his best to promote the interests of American letters, 
publishing an edition of the novels of Charles Brockden 
Brown, a volume of Sketches by N. P. Willis, and various 
periodicals. The two volumes of The Legendary led the 
way, consisting, as he says, of “original pieces in prose 
and verse, principally illustrative of American history, 


INTRODUCTION 


Vll 


scenery, and manners.” The Token , consolidated in 
1836 with The Atlantic Souve 7 iir> followed. Here comes 
the first point of contact between Hawthorne and Good¬ 
rich, men who could not have been expected to find each 
other congenial. Goodrich valued Willis and Mrs. 
Sigourney most among the contributors to The Token. 
What he has to say of Hawthorne indicates little pene¬ 
tration into either genius or character: — 

“ It is not easy to conceive of a stronger contrast than 
is presented by comparing Nathaniel Hawthorne with 
N. P. Willis. The former was for a time one of the prin¬ 
cipal writers for The Token , and his admirable sketches 
were published side by side with those of the latter. Yet 
it is curious to remark that everything Willis wrote 
attracted immediate attention, and excited ready praise, 
while the productions of Hawthorne were almost entirely 
unnoticed. 

“ The personal appearance and demeanor of these two 
gifted young men, at the early period of which I speak, 
was also in striking contrast. Willis was slender, his 
hair sunny and silken, his cheek ruddy, his aspect cheer¬ 
ful and confident. He met society with a ready and 
welcome hand, and was received readily and with wel¬ 
come. Hawthorne, on the contrary, was of a rather 
sturdy form, his hair dark and bushy, his eye steel-gray, 
his brow thick, his mouth sarcastic, his complexion stony, 
his whole aspect cold, moody, distrustful. He stood 
aloof, and surveyed the world from shy and sheltered 
positions. 

“ There was a corresponding difference in the writings 
of these two persons. Willis was all sunshine and sum¬ 
mer, the other chill, dark, and wintry; the one was full 
of love and hope, the other of doubt and distrust; the 
one sought the open daylight—sunshine, flowers, music, 
and found them everywhere — the other plunged into 
the dim caverns of the mind, and studied the grisly spec¬ 
tres of jealousy, remorse, despair. It is, perhaps, neither 
a subject of surprise nor regret, that the larger portion 
of the world is so happily constituted as to have been 
more ready to flirt with the gay muse of the one, than to 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 


descend into the spiritual charnelhouse, and assist at the 
psychological dissections of the other. 

“I had seen some anonymous publication which seemed 
to me to indicate extraordinary powers. I inquired of 
the publishers as to the writer, and through them a cor¬ 
respondence ensued between me and ‘ N. Hawthorne.’ 
This name I considered a disguise, and it was not till 
after many letters had passed, that I met the author, and 
found it to be a true title, representing a very substantial 
personage. At this period he was unsettled as to his 
views; he had tried his hand in literature, and considered 
himself to have met with a fatal rebuff from the reading 
world. His mind vacillated between various projects, 
verging, I think, toward a mercantile profession. I com¬ 
bated his despondence, and assured him of triumph, if 
he would persevere in a literary career. 

“ He wrote numerous articles, which appeared in The 
Token; occasionally an astute critic seemed to see 
through them, and to discover the soul that was in 
them ; but in general they passed without notice. Such 
articles as Sights from a Steeple , Sketches beneath an 
Umbrella , The Wives of the Dead , The Prophetic Pic¬ 
tures , now universally acknowledged to be productions 
of extraordinary depth, meaning, and power, extorted 
hardly a word of either praise or blame, while columns 
were given to pieces since totally forgotten. I felt 
annoyed, almost angry indeed, at this. I wrote several 
articles in the papers, directing attention to these pro¬ 
ductions, and finding no echo of my views, I recollect to 
have asked John Pickering to read some of them, and 
give me his opinion of them. He did as I requested; 
his answer was that they displayed a wonderful beauty 
of style, with a kind of double vision, a sort of second 
sight, which revealed, beyond the outward forms of life 
and being, a sort of spirit world, somewhat as a lake re¬ 
flects the earth around it and the sky above it: yet he 
deemed them too mystical to be popular. He was right, 
no doubt, at that period, but, ere long, a portion of man¬ 
kind, a large portion of the reading world, obtained a 
new sense — how or where or whence, is not easily de- 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


termined—which led them to study the mystical, to dive 
beneath and beyond the senses, and to discern, gather, 
and cherish gems and pearls of price in the hidden 
depths of the soul. Hawthorne was, in fact, a kind of 
Wordsworth in prose — less kindly, less genial toward 
mankind, but deeper and more philosophical. His fate 
was similar: at first he was neglected, at last he had 
worshippers. 

“In 1837, I recommended Mr. Hawthorne to publish 
a volume, comprising his various pieces, which had ap¬ 
peared in The Token and elsewhere. He consented, but 
as I had ceased to be a publisher it was difficult to find 
anyone who would undertake to bring out the work. I 
applied to the agent of the Stationers’ Company, but he 
refused, until at last I relinquished my copyrights on 
such of the tales as I had published, to Mr. Hawthorne, 
and joined a friend of his in a bond to indemnify them 
against loss; and thus the work was published by the 
Stationers’ Company, under the title of Twice-Told 
Tales , and for the author’s benefit. It was deemed a 
failure for more than a year, when a breeze seemed to 
rise and fill its sails, and with it the author was carried 
on to fame and fortune.” 

This account of Goodrich’s relations with Hawthorne 
was published (in Goodrich’s Recollections of a Life¬ 
time, vol. 2, pp. 269-273) in 1856, while Hawthorne was 
abroad, holding the Liverpool consulate. That Peter 
Parley told the truth as he saw it, need not be doubted, 
but the coloring of his report is self-complacent, and 
his statements are occasionally vague. What was that 
“ anonymous publication ” which caught his discerning 
eye,— Fanshawe , or a fantasy in The Salem Gazette ? In 
what papers did he publish those generous articles in 
praise of the contributions to his own annual ? Other 
statements are confusing, for we have Horatio Bridge’s 
testimony, on which no shadow of doubt has ever been 
cast, to the effect that it was he who took the initiative 
in the publication of Twice-Told Tales and assumed the 
full financial risk. As for Goodrich’s magnanimous re¬ 
linquishment of the copyrights, his letter to Hawthorne, 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


under date of January 19, 1830, implies that Haw¬ 
thorne, in selling Goodrich “ the privilege of inserting ” 
these tales in The Token , had been accustomed to reserve 
book rights ; yet the evidence is not conclusive. 

Hawthorne’s comment on the reference to himself in 
Goodrich’s autobiography was made in a letter to his 
sister-in-law, Miss Elizabeth Peabody: — 

“As regards Goodrich’s account of the relations be¬ 
tween him and me, it is funny enough to see him taking 
the airs of a patron; but I do not mind it in the least, 
nor feel the slightest inclination to defend myself, or be 
defended. I should as soon think of controverting his 
statement about my personal appearance (of which he 
draws no very lovely picture) as about anything else 
that he says. So pray do not take up the cudgels on my 
behalf; especially as I perceive that your recollections are 
rather inaccurate. For instance, it was Park Benjamin, 
not Goodrich, who cut up the ‘ Story-teller.’ As for 
Goodrich, I have rather a kindly feeling towards him, 
and he himself is a not unkindly man, in spite of his 
propensity to feed and fatten himself on better brains than 
his own. Only let him do that, and he will really some¬ 
times put himself to some trouble to do a goodnatured 
act. His quarrel with me was, that I broke away from 
him before he had quite finished his meal, and while a 
portion of my brain was left; and I have not the slightest 
doubt that he really felt himself wronged by my so doing. 
Really, I half think so too. He was born to do what he 
did, as maggots to feed on rich cheese.” 

The amount of hack work which Goodrich got out of 
Hawthorne is not accurately known. Goodrich opened 
his long series of children’s books in 1827 with the Tales 
of Peter Parley about America. By 1856 he could say 
that he was the author and editor of about one hundred 
and seventy volumes, one hundred and sixteen bearing 
the name of Peter Parley. Of all these, seven million 
had then been sold. Meanwhile, several spurious Peter 
Parleys had sprung up and, in defending himself against 
these, Goodrich admitted the cooperation of a dozen 
named authors, including Hawthorne, besides “others,” 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


including Hawthorne’s elder sister. In the course of 
this explanation, we have: “ As to Parley's Historical 
Compeyids —some nine or ten volumes— I had the assist¬ 
ance of N. Hawthorne, and J. O. Sargent, Esqs., and 
others.” 

What Goodrich meant by “assistance” we may un¬ 
derstand by referring to some published correspondence. 
Hawthorne wrote to his sister Elizabeth, from Boston, 
May 5, 1836: “I saw Mr. Goodrich yesterday. . . . He 
wants me to undertake a Universal History. ... If you 
are walling to write any part of it, ... I shall agree to 
do it.” Six days later he added : “ Our pay as historians 
of the universe will be about one hundred dollars, the 
whole of which you may have. It is a poor compensa¬ 
tion.” On September 23, 1836, Goodrich wrote to Haw¬ 
thorne : “Your letter and the two folios of Universal 
History were received some days ago. I like the His¬ 
tory pretty well, — I shall make it do.” 

This was quick work. The Universal History had a 
great sale, and Goodrich could congratulate himself on 
a good bargain. The narrative, sprinkled with small 
wood-cuts, succinctly sketches the progress of the universe 
from Noah’s Ark to the steamboat. The fiction of Peter 
Parley is faithfully kept up. After a graphic account 
of the death of the Chinese Emperor Chaus, who, “ to 
the great joy of his subjects, . . . went down among 
the fishes and never again came a-hunting in the rice- 
fields,” we have three impressive paragraphs concerning 
Ching. 

“ 8. The emperor Ching, who reigned about two 
thousand years ago, built a great wall, in order to pro¬ 
tect his dominions against the Tartars. It was forty-five 
feet high, and eighteen feet thick, and it extended over 
mountains and valleys, a distance of fifteen hundred 
miles. This wall still remains. 

“ 9. When Ching had completed the wall, he thought 
himself so very great an emperor, that none of his prede¬ 
cessors were worth remembering. He therefore or¬ 
dered all historical writings and public records to be 
burnt. He also caused four hundred learned men, 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

who were addicted to writing histories, to be buried 
alive. 

“ io. If the emperor Ching could have caught poor 
old Peter Parley, he certainly would have buried him 
likewise, with his four hundred learned brethren; and 
so the world would have lost this Universal History ! ” 

It is like Hawthorne to note in regard to another 
Chinese emperor, Vati, that he “was desirous of reign¬ 
ing till the world should come to an end, and perhaps 
longer. He therefore spent his time in endeavoring to 
brew a liquor that would make him immortal. But, 
unfortunately, before the liquor was fit to drink, the 
emperor died.” It is like Hawthorne, too, to linger 
over the Spanish search for the fountain of youth: — 

“ 8. Another thing which the Spaniards expected to 
find in America, was the fountain of youth. Far away 
beneath the shadows of the forest, they believed that 
there was a fountain, the bright waters of which 
would wash away wrinkles, and turn gray hair dark 
again. 

“9. Oh, if there were any such fountain, old Peter 
Parley would journey thither, lame as he is, and plunge 
head foremost into its bosom ! After a while the children 
of America would ask — ‘ Where is that lame old gentle¬ 
man who used to tell us stories ? * 

“10. And there would be a little rosy boy among 
them, a stranger whom they had never seen before. He 
would cry out, ‘ I was old Peter Parley; but I have been 
bathing in the fountain of youth, and now I am a boy 
again! Come, let us see which will hop farthest! ’ ” 

Among the various good features of this sprightly 
compendium is its interest in the life of the people. 
Kings are often dismissed with scant ceremony. Louis 
XVIII of France was “chiefly distinguished for his love 
of oysters”; Richard II of England “was not half so 
good a ruler as the blacksmith [Wat Tyler] would prob¬ 
ably have been”; Henry VIII was a “royal villain”; 
George IV had a great deal of taste in dress “ and it 
was a pity that he was a king, because he might other¬ 
wise have been an excellent tailor.” 


INTRODUCTION 


xiii 

American history, especially the Revolutionary War, 
is related with patriotic fervor. 

While Hawthorne, under Peter Parley’s shadow, was 
in this “historical compend,” and perhaps in others, 
learning how to talk to children in print, he was also, 
still with Goodrich at his elbow, working on the subjects 
which were presently to be treated in Grandfather'* 
Chair . 

Mr. Goodrich, Mr. Bowen of Charlestown, who was 
an engraver, and several other gentlemen, were associ¬ 
ated in what was known as the Boston Bewick Com¬ 
pany. The name Bewick was in compliment to an 
Englishman who had restored the art of wood engrav¬ 
ing. The company was formed for the purpose of 
publishing the American Magazine of Useful and En¬ 
tertaining Knowledge , where illustrations were to be the 
leading feature. This dismal periodical, which managed 
to live from 1834 to September, 1837, passed through 
the hands of several editors. In 1836 Goodrich induced 
Hawthorne to undertake the editorship at a salary of 
five hundred dollars a year. He edited six numbers of 
the magazine, from March through August, and then, 
unable to get his meagre salary paid, seems to have 
thrown up the task in disgust. Meanwhile, with the 
help of his elder sister, he had done all the literary work 
for every number, writing articles to fit the rude wood- 
cuts furnished by the Bewick Company, and ransack¬ 
ing books old and new, current newspapers, reports 
of legislative committees, Lyceum addresses, even the 
encyclopaedia, for detachable bits of “ useful and enter¬ 
taining knowledge.” 

The American Magazine had declared itself, at the 
outset, emphatically patriotic. It condemned what it 
avowed to be the custom of the American periodicals 
of the day — the giving nine-tenths of their space to 
foreign subjects — and promised on its own behalf to 
supply the public with “a work descriptive not merely 
of subjects , scenes , places , and persons existing in distant 
climes , but also of those which are to be found in 
OUR OWN FINE AND NATIVE COUNTRY.” Its plan Was to 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


supply a limited amount of original editorial matter 
in connection with the largest and worst wood-cuts, and 
fill up the remaining pages with extracts and condensa¬ 
tions, exclusive of fiction. The failure of the Bewick 
Company, however inconvenient for Hawthorne and 
their other creditors, was to the honor of contemporary 
taste. 

Hawthorne’s first number, March, opens with a crude 
engraving presenting the bust of Washington in a 
nimbus of star-spangled banners, cannon, shot, bayonets, 
drums, and battle-smoke, with the passage of the Delaware 
in the distance. This number is made up of biographies 
of American worthies, a historical sketch of Jerusalem, 
a description of New York, a meditative account by 
Hawthorne of his experiences on A71 Ontario Steam¬ 
boat , and the usual miscellany of clippings. The open¬ 
ing article on Washington strikes a note familiar to the 
readers of Grandfather's Chair: — 

“What American has not beheld the majestic features 
of Washington! — A generation has been born, and 
arrived at middle age, since he departed. Yet, were it 
possible that his illustrious shade should return, to mark 
the mighty growth of the country which he made a 
nation—were he to walk, in visible shape, the streets of 
our cities, not one among the crowd but would know 
Washington; were he to enter the most solitary farm¬ 
house, its inmates would at once recognize their awful 
guest; were he to visit that far western region, which 
he left a wilderness, the population of its busy towns 
would bow before him; or were he to pause near a New 
England school-house, the group of children round the 
door would gaze at him, and whisper—‘It is Washing¬ 
ton, our Father ! ’ ” 

The April number, which Hawthorne thought better, 
contained some characteristic columns from his pen on 
The Boston Tea-Party, April Fools, and Martha's Vine¬ 
yard, and his hand is perceptible in the May number, 
especially in the account of Wolfe on the Heights of 
Abraham, and the pioneer experiences of The Duston 
Family. In June the lack of salary — for by the middle 


INTRODUCTION 


xv 


of May Hawthorne had received only twenty dollars — 
seems to have dulled editorial enthusiasm. There is no 
original work of consequence in that month’s issue, 
nor is the July number much better; but the August 
magazine, whose frontispiece is a bust of John Adams 
on a pedestal of mingled flags and folios, has the 
Hawthorne touch again, most noticeable in a review of 
the Life of Eliot, apostle to the Indians. 

In this number, Hawthorne takes a laconic leave of 
his editorship: — 

“ Owing to circumstances unforeseen when we assumed 
the charge of this periodical, (in March last,) the present 
Number will probably terminate our connection with it. 
The brevity of our continuance in the Chair Editorial 
will excuse us from any lengthened ceremony in resign¬ 
ing it. In truth, there is very little to be said on the 
occasion. We have endeavored to fill our pages with a 
pleasant variety of wholesome matter. The reader must 
judge how far the attempt has been successful. It is 
proper to remark that we have not had the full control 
over the contents of the Magazine; inasmuch as the 
embellishments have chiefly been selected by the exec¬ 
utive officers of the Boston Bewick Company or by the 
engravers themselves, and our humble duty has consisted 
merely in preparing the literary illustrations.” 

Hawthorne’s connection with Peter Parley, then, had 
accustomed him to writing for children in a simple, 
straightforward style, and to drawing popular material 
from the standard books of American history and biog¬ 
raphy. The only surprising thing about the appearance 
of his four little volumes of “ historical tales for youth ” 
is that they were not issued earlier than 1841, but the 
lack of a publisher probably accounts for this. His 
enterprising sister-in-law elect, Miss Elizabeth Peabody, 
was by that time in the book business herself, and she 
published the three parts of Grandfather's Chair in 
Boston, Wiley & Putnam of New York appearing on the 
same title-page. These first editions are veritable child- 
books, 32mo., in cloth covers of brown, lavender, and 
green respectively. Little oblong black labels, pasted 


XVI 


INTRODUCTION 


in the middle of the front cover, bear, in the two latter 
cases, the title in gilt within a gay gilt border. As to the 
first part, the two copies which I have chanced to see 
have their black labels blank, as if Miss Peabody’s gilder 
had not done his full duty. The well-known preface to 
this first volume is dated Boston, November, 1840. The 
preface to Famous Old People , written in Boston, 
December 30, 1840, is as follows: — 

“ Grandfather again shoves his great Chair before the 
youthful public, and desires to make them acquainted 
with a new dynasty of occupants. The iron race of 
Puritans, whose rigid figures sat bolt upright against its 
oaken back, in the first Epoch of our History, have now 
given place to quite a different set of men. 

“ It is true, we have here a venerable School-master, 
who was a contemporary of the early Puritans, and pre¬ 
served their moral characteristics, as he did his own 
white beard, at a period when both were out of fashion. 
We have likewise a shadow of Dr. Cotton Mather, who, 
setting aside many individual peculiarities, may be looked 
upon as an exaggeration of those pious and potent 
Divines, whom he reverenced as the great men of the 
preceding age. 

“ But then come a succession of Governors, holding up 
the royal commission as the source of their authority. 
These dignitaries are illuminated by a ray, although faint 
and distant, yet gleaming upon them from the splendor 
of the British throne. Our old Chair, itself, loses the 
severe simplicity, which was in keeping with the habits 
of its earliest possessors, and is gilded and varnished, 
and gorgeously cushioned, so as to make it a fitting seat 
for vice-regal pomp. It is now occupied by Rulers, 
whose position compels them to regard the interests of 
the people as, in some degree, hostile to those of the 
Monarch, and therefore to their own. It is surrounded 
by ambitious Politicians, Soldiers, and Adventurers, hav¬ 
ing no pretension to that high religious and moral prin¬ 
ciple, which gave to our first Epoch a character of the 
truest and loftiest romance. 

“ This Epoch presents enough of military and worldly 


INTRODUCTION 


XVII 


adventure to please our little friend Charley, in whom 
we discern the traits, which may hereafter render him a 
man of power among actual affairs, and in all the busi¬ 
ness of life. Laurence, in whom we represent a more 
ideal nature, probably feels a greater sympathy with 
the unworldly Pilgrims, and especially with the Apostle 
Eliot, who joined to their high excellences a spirit of 
love, that scarcely any other man of his day possessed. 
Perhaps, in a third Epoch, we shall find in individuals, 
and the people at large, a combination of ideal principle 
and adventurous action, that may attract the interest 
both of Laurence and Charley. 

“This little book presents a slight historic sketch of 
the period, when Massachusetts had ceased to be a 
Republic, and was strictly a Province of England. It 
is therefore sufficiently complete in itself, to make it 
independent of our preceding volume. Should we be 
encouraged to conclude the adventures of our old Chair, 
the remaining part, beginning with the first movement 
of the Revolution, will also include a period of history, 
that may be read in disconnection with the past. But 
the Author’s desire is, in the three numbers that will 
compose the entire history of Grandfather’s Chair, 
to give the youthful reader a rounded outline of the 
whole period, during which this piece of furniture was so 
prominent an object.” 

The preface to Liberty Tree , dated Boston, February 
27, 1841, runs thus: — 

“ Has the youthful reader grown weary of Grand¬ 
father’s stories about his Chair ? Will he not come, this 
once more, to our fire-side, and be received as an own 
grandchild, and as brother, sister, or cousin to Laurence, 
Clara, Charley, and little Alice ? Come, do not be bash¬ 
ful, nor afraid. You will find Grandfather a kindly old 
man, with a cheerful spirit, and a heart that has grown 
mellow, instead of becoming dry and wilted, with age. 

“ He will tell j'you how King George, trusting in the 
might of his armies and navies, sought to establish a tyr¬ 
anny over our fathers. Then you shall hear about Liberty 
Tree, and what crowds used to assemble within the cir- 


xviii INTRODUCTION 

cumference of its shadow. Grandfather must speak, 
also, about riots and disorders, and how an angry multi¬ 
tude broke into the mansion of the lieutenant governor. 
Next, he will show you the proud array of British sol¬ 
diers, in their uniforms of scarlet and gold, landing at 
Long Wharf, and marching to take possession of the 
Common, and Faneuil Hall, and the Old State House. 
Then you must listen to the dismal tale of the Boston 
Massacre. Next comes the marvellous story of the tea 
ships, and of that band of Indian figures who made their 
appearance in the dusk of evening, and vanished before 
the dawn of day. Now come more and more regiments 
of soldiers. Their tents whiten the Common like un¬ 
timely snow. Their war-horses prance and neigh, within 
the walls of the Old South Church. Hark! that faint 
echo comes from Lexington, where the British soldiers 
have fired a volley that begins the war of the Revolution. 
The people are up in arms. Gage, Howe, Burgoyne, 
Lord Percy and many another haughty Englishman, are 
beleaguered within the peninsula of Boston. The Ameri¬ 
cans build batteries on every hill; and look! a warlike 
figure, on a white horse, rides majestically from height 
to height, and directs the progress of the siege. Can it 
be Washington ? 

“ Then Grandfather will call up the shadow of a 
devoted loyalist, and strive to paint him to your eyes and 
heart, as he takes his farewell walk through Boston. 
We will trace his melancholy steps from Faneuil Hall to 
Liberty Tree. That famous tree ! The axes of the 
British soldiers have hewn it down, but not before its 
wind-strewn leaves had scattered the spirit of freedom 
far and wide — not before its roots had sprouted, even in 
the distant soil of Georgia. 

“ Amid all these wonderful matters, we shall not lose 
sight of Grandfather’s Chair. On its sturdy oaken legs, 
it trudges diligently from one scene to another, and 
seems always to thrust itself in the way, with most 
benign complacency, whenever an historical personage 
happens to be looking round for a seat. The excellent 
old chair! Let the reader make much of it, while he 


INTRODUCTION 


xix 


may; for with this little volume Grandfather concludes 
its history, and withdraws it from the public eye.” 

Hawthorne was so well pleased with the second sen¬ 
tence of this last paragraph that he added it to the first 
paragraph of the preface to Grandfather s Chair. That 
preface, with this one sentence added and with two or 
three verbal alterations, was then pressed into service 
for True Stories. 

The Biographical Tales , whose brief preface is dated 
Boston, January 17, 1842, found publishers in the Boston 
firm of Tappan and Dennet. Of the six worthies hon¬ 
ored in that plain, brown-clad little volume only two are 
Americans, — our illustrious Benjamins, Franklin and 
West; but it was the American in Hawthorne that 
selected Oliver Cromwell. Hawthorne’s special feeling 
for Samuel Johnson is made evident by the chapter on 
Lichfield and Uttoxeter in Our Old Home. The author 
admits that Queen Christina is a concession to the 
“ little girls among our readers,” and Sir Isaac Newton 
promises, at least, something genuine in the way of 
“useful and entertaining knowledge.” 

In regard to the reception given these successive book¬ 
lets, we may rest content with the testimony, a trifle for¬ 
getful in details, of Miss Elizabeth Peabody: — 

“In 1840 he [Hawthorne] went to Brook Farm, and 
left it in six months, and then published the ‘ Grand¬ 
father’s Chair ’ in three parts. I was keeping bookstore 
then and published it. This was a great success; and 
Tappan and Dutton made him a great offer for it, and 
also engaged him to write ‘True Stories for Children.’” 

If it were Grandfathed s Chair only for which we have 
to thank Peter Parley, our gratitude would be sincere; 
but Grandfather*s Chair has a higher value than its own. 
It led the way to those children’s classics, A Wonder- 
Book and Tanglewood Tales. 

Katharine Lee Bates. 



PREFACE 


In writing this ponderous tome, the author’s desire 
has been to describe the eminent characters and re¬ 
markable events of our early annals, in such a form and 
style that the young might make acquaintance with them 
of their own accord. For this purpose, while ostensibly 
relating the adventures of a chair, he has endeavored to 
keep a distinct and unbroken thread of authentic his¬ 
tory. The chair is made to pass from one to another of 
those personages of whom he thought it most desirable 
for the young reader to have vivid and familiar ideas, 
and whose lives and actions would best enable him to 
give picturesque sketches of the times. 

There is certainly no method, by which the shadowy 
outlines of departed men and women can be made to 
assume the hues of life more effectually than by con¬ 
necting their images with the substantial and homely 
reality of a fireside chair. It causes us to feel at once 
that these characters of history had a private and famil¬ 
iar existence, and were not wholly contained within that 
cold array of outward action which we are compelled to 
receive as the adequate representation of their lives. If 
this impression can be given, much is accomplished. 

Setting aside Grandfather and his auditors, and ex¬ 
cepting the adventures of the chair, which form the 
machinery of the work, nothing in the ensuing pages 
can be termed fictitious. The author, it is true, has 
sometimes assumed the license of filling up the outline 
of history with details, for which he has none but im¬ 
aginative authority, but which, he hopes, do not violate 
nor give a false coloring to the truth. He believes that, 
in this respect, his narrative will not be found to convey 
ideas and impressions of which the reader may hereafter 
find it necessary to purge his mind. 

xxi 


XXII 


PREFACE 


The author’s great doubt is whether he has succeeded 
in writing a book which will be readable by the class for 
whom he intends it. To make a lively and entertaining 
narrative for children, with such unmalleable material as 
is presented by the sombre, stern, and rigid characteris¬ 
tics of the Puritans, is quite as difficult an attempt as to 
manufacture delicate playthings out of the granite rocks 
on which New England is founded. 

Boston, November, 1840. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


PART I 

CHAPTER I 

G RANDFATHER had been sitting in his old arm¬ 
chair all that pleasant afternoon, while the children 
were pursuing their various sports, far off or near at 
hand. Sometimes you would have said, “ Grandfather 
is asleep; ” but still, even when his eyes were closed, 
his thoughts were with the young people, playing among 
the flowers and shrubbery of the garden. 

He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken pos¬ 
session of a heap of decayed branches which the gar¬ 
dener had lopped from the fruit-trees, and was building 
a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He heard 
Clara’s gladsome voice, too, as she weeded and watered 
the flower-bed which had been given her for her own. 
He could have counted every footstep that Charley took, 
as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the gravel walk. 
And though Grandfather was old and gray-haired, yet 
his heart leaped with joy whenever little Alice came 
fluttering, like a butterfly, into the room. She had 
made each of the children her playmate in turn, and 
now made Grandfather her playmate too, and thought 
him the merriest of them all. 

At last the children grew weary of their sports; 
because a summer afternoon is like a long lifetime to 
the young. So they came into the room together, and 
clustered round Grandfather’s great chair. Little Alice, 
who was hardly five years old, took the privilege of the 


2 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


youngest, and climbed his knee. It was a pleasant 
thing to behold that fair and golden-haired child in the 
lap of the old man, and to think that, different as they 
were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with the 
same joys. 

“ Grandfather,” said little Alice, laying her head back 
upon his arm, “ I am very tired now. You must tell me 
a story to make me go to sleep.” 

“That is not what story-tellers like,” answered Grand¬ 
father, smiling. “ They are better satisfied when they 
can keep their auditors awake.” 

“ But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I,” cried 
cousin Clara, who was twice as old as little Alice. “ We 
will all three keep wide awake. And pray, Grandfather, 
tell us a story about this strange-looking old chair.” 

Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made of 
oak, which had grown dark with age, but had been 
rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as mahogany. 
It was very large and heavy, and had a back that rose 
high above Grandfather’s white head. This back was 
curiously carved in open-work, so as to represent flowers 
and foliage and other devices; which the children had 
often gazed at, but could never understand what they 
meant. On the very tiptop of the chair, over the head 
of Grandfather himself, was a likeness of a lion’s head, 
which had such a savage grin, that you would almost 
expect to hear it growl and snarl. 

The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this 
chair ever since they could remember anything. Per¬ 
haps the younger of them supposed that he and the 
chair had come into the world together, and that both 
had always been as old as they were now. At this time, 
however, it happened to be the fashion for ladies to 
adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest and oddest 
chairs that could be found. It seemed to cousin Clara 
that if these ladies could have seen Grandfather’s old 
chair, they would have thought it worth all the rest 
together. She wondered if it were not even older than 
Grandfather himself, and longed to know all about its 
history. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


3 

“ Do, Grandfather, talk to us about this chair,” she 
repeated. 

“Well, child,” said Grandfather, patting Clara’s cheek, 
“ I can tell you a great many stories of my chair. Per¬ 
haps your cousin Laurence would like to hear them too. 
They would teach him something about the history and 
distinguished people of his country, which he has never 
read in any of his school-books.” 

Cousin Laurence was a boy of twelve, a bright scholar, 
in whom an early thoughtfulness and sensibility began 
to show themselves. His young fancy kindled at the 
idea of knowing all the adventures of this venerable 
chair. He looked eagerly in Grandfather’s face; and 
even Charley, a bold, brisk, restless little fellow of nine, 
sat himself down on the carpet, and resolved to be quiet 
for at least ten minutes, should the story last so long. 

Meantime, little Alice was already asleep; so Grand¬ 
father, being much pleased with such an attentive audi¬ 
ence, began to talk about matters that happened long 
ago. 


CHAPTER II 


B UT, before relating the adventures of the chair, 
Grandfather found it necessary to speak of the cir¬ 
cumstances that caused the first settlement of New 
England. For it will soon be perceived that the story 
of this remarkable chair cannot be told without telling 
a great deal of the history of the country. 

So, Grandfather talked about the Puritans, as those 
persons were called who thought it sinful to practise 
the religious forms and ceremonies which the Church 
of England had borrowed from the Roman Catholics. 
These Puritans suffered so much persecution in Eng¬ 
land that, in 1607, many of them went over to Holland, 
and lived ten or twelve years at Amsterdam and Ley¬ 
den. But they feared that, if they continued there 
much longer, they should cease to be English, and 
should adopt all the manners and ideas and feelings of 
the Dutch. For this and other reasons, in the year 
1620, they embarked on board of the ship Mayflower, 
and crossed the ocean to the shores of Cape Cod. There 
they made a settlement, and called it Plymouth, which, 
though now a part of Massachusetts, was for a long 
time a colony by itself. And thus was formed the 
earliest settlement of the Puritans in America. 

Meantime, those of the Puritans who remained in 
England continued to suffer grievous persecution on 
account of their religious opinions. They began to 
look around them for some spot where they might wor¬ 
ship God, not as the king and bishops thought fit, but 
according to the dictates of their own consciences. 
When their brethren had gone from Holland to 
America, they bethought themselves that they likewise 
might find refuge from persecution there. Several 
gentlemen among them purchased a tract of country 

4 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


5 


on the coast of Massachusetts Bay, and obtained a 
charter from King Charles, which authorized them to 
make laws for the settlers. In the year 1628, they sent 
over a few people, with John Endicott at their head, to 
commence a plantation at Salem. Peter Palfrey, Roger 
Conant, and one or two more, had built houses there in 
1626, and may be considered as the first settlers of that 
ancient town. Many other Puritans prepared to follow 
Endicott. 

“ And now we come to the chair, my dear children,” 
said Grandfather. “This chair is supposed to have 
been made of an oak-tree which grew in the park of the 
English earl of Lincoln, between two and three centuries 
ago. In its younger days it used, probably, to stand in 
the hall of the earl’s castle. Do not you see the coat of 
arms of the family of Lincoln, carved in the open-work 
of the back ? But when his daughter, the Lady Arbella, 
was married to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her 
this valuable chair.” 

“ Who was Mr. Johnson ? ” inquired Clara. 

“ He was a gentleman of great wealth, who agreed 
with the Puritans in their religious opinions,” answered 
Grandfather. “ And as his belief was the same as theirs, 
he resolved that he would live and die with them. Ac¬ 
cordingly, in the month of April, 1630, he left his pleas¬ 
ant abode and all his comforts in England, and embarked 
with the Lady Arbella, on board of a ship bound for 
America.” 

As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the ques¬ 
tions and observations of his young auditors, we deem 
it advisable to omit all such prattle as is not essential to 
the story. We have taken some pains to find out exactly 
what Grandfather said, and here offer to our readers, as 
nearly as possible in his own words, the story of 

The Lady Arbella 

The ship in which Mr. Johnson and his lady embarked, 
taking Grandfather’s chair along with them, was called 
the Arbella, in honor of the lady herself. A fleet of 


6 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


ten or twelve vessels, with many hundred passengers, 
left England about the same time; for a multitude of 
people, who were discontented with the king’s govern¬ 
ment, and oppressed by the bishops, were flocking over 
to the new world. One of the vessels in the fleet was 
that same Mayflower which had carried the Puritan pil¬ 
grims to Plymouth. And now, my children, I would 
have you fancy yourselves in the cabin of the good ship 
Arbella; because if you could behold the passengers 
aboard that vessel, you would feel what a blessing and 
honor it was for New England to have such settlers. 
They were the best men and women of their day. 

Among the passengers was John Winthrop, who had 
sold the estate of his forefathers, and was going to pre¬ 
pare a new home for his wife and children in the wilder¬ 
ness. He had the king’s charter in his keeping, and 
was appointed the first Governor of Massachusetts. 
Imagine him a person of grave and benevolent aspect, 
dressed in a black velvet suit, with a broad ruff around 
his neck and a peaked beard upon his chin. There was 
likewise a minister of the Gospel, whom the English 
bishops had forbidden to preach, but who knew that 
he should have liberty both to preach and pray in the 
forests of America. He wore a black cloak, called a 
Geneva cloak, and had a black velvet cap, fitting close 
to his head, as was the fashion of almost all the Puritan 
clergymen. In their company came Sir Richard Salton- 
stall, who had been one of the five first projectors of 
the new colony. He soon returned to his native coun¬ 
try. But his descendants still remain in New England; 
and the good old family name is as much respected in 
our days as it was in those of Sir Richard. 

Not only these, but several other men of wealth, and 
pious ministers, were in the cabin of the Arbella. One 
had banished himself forever from the old hall where 
his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years. Another 
had left his quiet parsonage, in a country town of Eng¬ 
land. Others had come from the universities of Oxford 
or Cambridge, where they had gained great fame for 
their learning. And here they all were, tossing upon 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


7 


the uncertain and dangerous sea, and bound for a home 
that was more dangerous than even the sea itself. In 
the cabin, likewise, sat the Lady Arbella in her chair, 
with a gentle and sweet expression on her face, but look¬ 
ing too pale and feeble to endure the hardships of the 
wilderness. 

Every morning and evening the Lady Arbella gave 
up her great chair to one of the ministers, who took his 
place in it and read passages from the Bible to his com¬ 
panions. And thus, with prayers and pious conversa¬ 
tion, and frequent singing of hymns, which the breezes 
caught from their lips and scattered far over the deso¬ 
late waves, they prosecuted their voyage, and sailed into 
the harbor of Salem in the month of June. 

At that period there were but six or eight dwellings 
in the town; and these were miserable hovels, with roofs 
of straw and wooden chimneys. The passengers in the 
fleet either built huts with bark and branches of trees, 
or erected tents of cloth till they could provide them¬ 
selves with better shelter. Many of them went to form 
a settlement at Charlestown. It was thought fit that the 
Lady Arbella should tarry in Salem for a time; she was 
probably received as a guest into the family of John 
Endicott. He was the chief person in the plantation, 
and had the only comfortable house which the new¬ 
comers had beheld since they left England. So now, 
children, you must imagine Grandfather’s chair in the 
midst of a new scene. 

Suppose it a hot summer’s day, and the lattice-windows 
of a chamber in Mr. Endicott’s house thrown wide open. 
The Lady Arbella, looking paler than she did on ship¬ 
board, is sitting in her chair, and thinking mournfully 
of far-off England. She rises and goes to the window. 
There, amid patches of garden ground and corn-field, 
she sees the few wretched hovels of the settlers, with 
the still ruder wigwams and cloth tents of the passen¬ 
gers who had arrived in the same fleet with herself. 
Far and near* stretches the dismal forest of pine-trees, 
which throw their black shadows over the whole land, 
and likewise over the heart of this poor lady. 


8 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


All the inhabitants of the little village are busy. One 
is clearing a spot on the verge of the forest for his home¬ 
stead ; another is hewing the trunk of a fallen pine-tree, 
in order to build himself a dwelling; a third is hoeing 
in his field of Indian corn. Here comes a huntsman 
out of the woods, dragging a bear which he has shot, 
and shouting to the neighbors to lend him a hand. 
There goes a man to the seashore, with a spade and 
a bucket, to dig a mess of clams, which were a principal 
article of food with the first settlers. Scattered here 
and there are two or three dusky figures, clad in mantles 
of fur, with ornaments of bone hanging from their ears, 
and the feathers of wild birds in their coal-black hair. 
They have belts of shell-work slung across their shoul¬ 
ders, and are armed with bows and arrows and flint¬ 
headed spears. These are an Indian Sagamore and 
his attendants, who have come to gaze at the labors of 
the white men. And now rises a cry, that a pack of 
wolves have seized a young calf in the pasture, and 
every man snatches up his gun or pike, and runs in 
chase of the marauding beasts. 

Poor Lady Arbella watches all these sights, and feels 
that this new world is fit only for rough and hardy 
people. None should be here but those who can strug¬ 
gle with wild beasts and wild men, and can toil in the 
heat or cold, and can keep their hearts firm against all 
difficulties and dangers. But she is not one of these. 
Her gentle and timid spirit sinks within her; and turn¬ 
ing away from the window she sits down in the great 
chair, and wonders whereabouts in the wilderness her 
friends will dig her grave. 

Mr. Johnson had gone, with Governor Winthrop and 
most of the other passengers, to Boston, where he in¬ 
tended to build a house for Lady Arbella and himself. 
Boston was then covered with wild woods, and had 
fewer inhabitants even than Salem. During her hus¬ 
band’s absence, poor Lady Arbella felt herself growing 
ill, and was hardly able to stir from the great chair. 
Whenever John Endicott noticed her despondency, he 
doubtless addressed her with words of comfort. “ Cheer 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


9 

up, my good lady! ” he would say. “ In a little time, 
you will love this rude life of the wilderness as I do.” 
But Endicott’s heart was as bold and resolute as iron, 
and he could not understand why a woman’s heart 
should not be of iron too. 

Still, however, he spoke kindly to the lady, and then 
hastened forth to till his corn-field and set out fruit- 
trees, or to bargain with the Indians for furs, or per¬ 
chance to oversee the building of a fort. Also being 
a magistrate, he had often to punish some idler or evil¬ 
doer, by ordering him to be set in the stocks or scourged 
at the whipping-post. Often, too, as was the custom of 
the times, he and Mr. Higginson, the minister of Salem, 
held long religious talks together. Thus John Endicott 
was a man of multifarious business, and had no time 
to look back regretfully to his native land. He felt 
himself fit for the new world, and for the work that he 
had to do, and set himself resolutely to accomplish it. 

What a contrast, my dear children, between this bold, 
rough, active man, and the gentle Lady Arbella, who 
was fading away, like a pale English flower, in the 
shadow of the forest! And now the great chair was 
often empty, because Lady Arbella grew too weak to 
arise from bed. 

Meantime, her husband had pitched upon a spot for 
their new home. He returned from Boston to Salem, 
travelling through the woods on foot, and leaning on 
his pilgrim’s staff. His heart yearned within him ; for 
he was eager to tell his wife of the new home which he 
had chosen. But when he beheld her pale and hollow 
cheek, and found how her strength was wasted, he must 
have known that her appointed home was in a better 
land. Happy for him then, — happy both for him and 
her, — if they remembered that there was a path to 
heaven, as well from this heathen wilderness as from 
the Christian land whence they had come. And so, in 
one short month from her arrival, the gentle Lady 
Arbella faded away and died. They dug a grave for 
her in the new soil, where the roots of the pine-trees 
impeded their spades; and when her bones had rested 


IO 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


there nearly two hundred years, and a city had sprung 
up around them, a church of stone was built upon the 
spot. 

Charley, almost at the commencement of the fore¬ 
going narrative, had galloped away with a prodigious 
clatter, upon Grandfather’s stick, and was not yet re¬ 
turned. So large a boy should have been ashamed to 
ride upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had lis¬ 
tened attentively, and were affected by this true story 
of the gentle lady, who had come so far to die so soon. 
Grandfather had supposed that little Alice was asleep, 
but, towards the close of the story, happening to look 
down upon her, he saw that her blue eyes were wide 
open, and fixed earnestly upon his face. The tears had 
gathered in them, like dew upon a delicate flower; but 
when Grandfather ceased to speak, the sunshine of her 
smile broke forth again. 

“ Oh, the lady must have been so glad to get to 
heaven ! ” exclaimed little Alice. 

“ Grandfather, what became of Mr. Johnson ? ” asked 
Clara. 

“ His heart appears to have been quite broken,” 
answered Grandfather; “ for he died at Boston within 
a month after the death of his wife. He was buried in 
the very same tract of ground, where he had intended 
to build a dwelling for Lady Arbella and himself. 
Where their house would have stood, there was his 
grave.” 

“ I never heard anything so melancholy !” said Clara. 

“The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so 
much,” continued Grandfather, “that it was the last 
request of many of them, when they died, that they 
might be buried as near as possible to this good man’s 
grave. And so the field became the first burial-ground 
in Boston. When you pass through Tremont street, 
along by King’s Chapel, you see a burial-ground, con¬ 
taining many old grave-stones and monuments. That 
was Mr. Johnson’s field.” 

“ How sad is the thought,” observed Clara, “ that one 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR n 

of the first things which the settlers had to do, when 
they came to the new world, was to set apart a burial- 
ground ! ” 

“Perhaps,” said Laurence, “if they had found no 
need of burial-grounds here, they would have been glad, 
after a few years, to go back to England.” 

Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover whether 
he knew how profound and true a thing he had said. 


CHAPTER III 


N OT long after Grandfather had told the story of 
his great chair, there chanced to be a rainy day. 
Our friend Charley, after disturbing the household with 
beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and down the 
staircase, overturning of chairs, and much other uproar, 
began to feel the quiet and confinement within doors in¬ 
tolerable. But as the rain came down in a flood, the 
little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner, and now stood 
with sullen aspect at a window, wondering whether the 
sun itself were not extinguished by so much moisture in 
the sky. 

Charley had already exhausted the less eager activity 
of the other children; and they had betaken themselves 
to occupations that did not admit of his companionship. 
Laurence sat in a recess near the book-case, reading, 
not for the first time, the Midsummer Night’s Dream. 
Clara was making a rosary of beads for a little figure of 
a Sister of Charity, who was to attend the Bunker Hill 
Fair, and lend her aid in erecting the Monument. Little 
Alice sat on Grandfather’s footstool, with a picture-book 
in her hand ; and, for every picture, the child was telling 
Grandfather a story. She did not read from the book 
(for little Alice had not much skill in reading), but told 
the story out of her own heart and mind. 

Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care anything 
about little Alice’s stories, although Grandfather ap¬ 
peared to listen with a good deal of interest. Often, in 
a young child’s ideas and fancies, there is something 
which it requires the thought of a lifetime to compre¬ 
hend. But Charley was of opinion, that if a story must 
be told, it had better be told by Grandfather, than little 
Alice. 


12 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


13 


“ Grandfather, I want to hear more about your chair,” 
said he. 

Now Grandfather remembered that Charley had gal¬ 
loped away upon a stick, in the midst of the narrative of 
poor Lady Arbella, and I know not whether he would 
have thought it worth while to tell another story, merely 
to gratify such an inattentive auditor as Charley. But 
Laurence laid down his book and seconded the request. 
Clara drew her chair nearer to Grandfather, and little 
Alice immediately closed her picture-book, and looked 
up into his face. Grandfather had not the heart to dis¬ 
appoint them. 

He mentioned several persons who had a share in the 
settlement of our country, and who would be well worthy 
of remembrance, if we could find room to tell about them 
all. Among the rest, Grandfather spoke of the famous 
Hugh Peters, a minister of the Gospel, who did much 
good to the inhabitants of Salem. Mr. Peters afterwards 
went back to England, and was chaplain to Oliver Crom¬ 
well ; but Grandfather did not tell the children what be¬ 
came of this upright and zealous man, at last. In fact, 
his auditors were growing impatient to hear more about 
the history of the chair. 

“After the death of Mr. Johnson,” said he, “Grand¬ 
father’s chair came into the possession of Roger Williams. 
He was a clergyman, who arrived at Salem, and settled 
there in 1631. Doubtless the good man has spent many 
a studious hour in this old chair, either penning a ser¬ 
mon, or reading some abstruse book of theology, till mid¬ 
night came upon him unawares. At that period, as there 
were few lamps or candles to be had, people used to read 
or work by the light of pitchpine torches. These sup¬ 
plied the place of the ‘ midnight oil ’ to the learned men 
of New England.” 

Grandfather went on to talk about Roger Williams, 
and told the children several particulars, which we have 
not room to repeat. One incident, however, which was 
connected with his life, must be related, because it will 
give the reader an idea of the opinions and feelings of 
the first settlers of New England. It was as follows: — 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


i4 


The Red Cross 

While Roger Williams sat in Grandfather’s chair, at 
his humble residence in Salem, John Endicott would 
often come to visit him. As the clergy had great influ¬ 
ence in temporal concerns, the minister and magistrate 
would talk over the occurrences of the day, and consult 
how the people might be governed according to scrip¬ 
tural laws. 

One thing especially troubled them both. In the old 
national banner of England, under which her soldiers 
have fought for hundreds of years, there is a Red Cross, 
which has been there ever since the days when England 
was in subjection to the Pope. The Cross, though a 
holy symbol, was abhorred by the Puritans, because 
they considered it a relic of Popish idolatry. Now, 
whenever the train-band of Salem was mustered, the 
soldiers, with Endicott at their head, had no other flag 
to march under than this same old papistical banner of 
England, with the Red Cross in the midst of it. The 
banner of the Red Cross, likewise, was flying on the 
walls of the fort of Salem ; and a similar one was dis¬ 
played in Boston harbor, from the fortress on Castle 
Island. 

“ I profess, brother Williams,” Captain Endicott 
would say, after they had been talking of this matter, 
“ it distresses a Christian man’s heart to see this idola¬ 
trous Cross flying over our heads. A stranger, behold¬ 
ing it, would think that we had undergone all our 
hardships and dangers, by sea and in the wilderness, 
only to get new dominions for the Pope of Rome.” 

“ Truly, good Mr. Endicott,” Roger Williams would 
answer, “you speak as an honest man and Protestant 
Christian should. For mine own part, were it my 
business to draw a sword, I should reckon it sinful to 
fight under such a banner. Neither can I, in my pulpit, 
ask the blessing of Heaven upon it.” 

Such, probably, was the way in which Roger Will¬ 
iams and John Endicott used to talk about the banner 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


1 5 


of the Red Cross. Endicott, who was a prompt and 
resolute man, soon determined that Massachusetts, if 
she could not have a banner of her own, should at least 
be delivered from that of the Pope of Rome. 

Not long afterwards there was a military muster at 
Salem. Every able-bodied man in the town and neigh¬ 
borhood was there. All were well armed, with steel 
caps upon their heads, plates of iron upon their breasts 
and at their backs, and gorgets of steel around their 
necks. When the sun shone upon these ranks of iron¬ 
clad men, they flashed and blazed with a splendor that 
bedazzled the wild Indians, who had come out of the 
woods to gaze at them. The soldiers had long pikes, 
swords, and muskets, which were fired with matches, 
and were almost as heavy as a small cannon. 

These men had mostly a stern and rigid aspect. To 
judge by their looks, you might have supposed that 
there was as much iron in their hearts as there was 
upon their heads and breasts. They were all devoted 
Puritans, and of the same temper as those with whom 
Oliver Cromwell afterwards overthrew the throne of 
England. They hated all the relics of Popish supersti¬ 
tion as much as Endicott himself; and yet, over their 
heads, was displayed the banner of the Red Cross. 

Endicott was the captain of the company. While the 
soldiers were expecting his orders to begin their exer¬ 
cise, they saw him take the banner in one hand, holding 
his drawn sword in the other. Probably he addressed 
them in a speech, and explained how horrible a thing it 
was, that men, who had fled from Popish idolatry into 
the wilderness, should be compelled to fight under its 
symbols here. Perhaps he concluded his address some¬ 
what in the following style : — 

“And now, fellow-soldiers, you see this old banner 
of England. Some of you, I doubt not, may think it 
treason for a man to lay violent hands upon it. But 
whether or no it be treason to man, I have good assur¬ 
ance in my conscience that it is no treason to God. 
Wherefore I have resolved that we will rather be 
God’s soldiers, than soldiers of the Pope of Rome; 


16 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

and in that mind I now cut the Papal Cross out of this 
banner.” 

And so he did. And thus, in a province belonging 
to the crown of England, a captain was found bold 
enough to deface the King’s banner with his sword. 

When Winthrop and the other wise men of Massa¬ 
chusetts heard of it, they were disquieted, being afraid 
that Endicott’s act would bring great trouble upon him¬ 
self and them. An account of the matter was carried 
to King Charles ; but he was then so much engrossed 
by dissensions with his people, that he had no leisure 
to punish the offender. In other times, it might have 
cost Endicott his life, and Massachusetts her charter. 

“ I should like to know, Grandfather,” said Laurence, 
when the story was ended, “ whether, when Endicott 
cut the Red Cross out of the banner, he meant to imply 
that Massachusetts was independent of England ? ” 

“A sense of the independence of his adopted country 
must have been in that bold man’s heart,” answered 
Grandfather; “ but I doubt whether he had given the 
matter much consideration, except in its religious bear¬ 
ing. However, it was a very remarkable affair, and a 
very strong expression of Puritan character.” 

Grandfather proceeded to speak further of Roger 
Williams, and of other persons who sat in the great 
chair, as will be seen in the following chapter. 


CHAPTER IV 


“ TJ OGER WILLIAMS,” said Grandfather, “did not 

IV keep possession of the chair a great while. His 
opinions of civil and religious matters differed, in many 
respects, from those of the rulers and clergymen of 
Massachusetts. Now the wise men of those days be¬ 
lieved that the country could not be safe, unless all the 
inhabitants thought and felt alike.” 

“ Does anybody believe so in our days, Grandfather?” 
asked Laurence. 

“ Possibly there are some who believe it,” said Grand¬ 
father ; “ but they have not so much power to act upon 
their belief, as the magistrates and ministers had, in the 
days of Roger Williams. They had the power to de¬ 
prive this good man of his home, and to send him out 
from the midst of them, in search of a new place of 
rest. He was banished in 1634, and went first to Plym¬ 
outh colony; but as the people there held the same 
opinions as those of Massachusetts, he was not suffered 
to remain among them. However, the wilderness was 
wide enough; so Roger Williams took his staff and 
travelled into the forest, and made treaties with the 
Indians, and began a plantation which he called Provi¬ 
dence.” 

“ I have been to Providence on the railroad,” said 
Charley. “ It is but a two hours’ ride.” 

“Yes, Charley,” replied Grandfather; “but when 
Roger Williams travelled thither, over hills and valleys, 
and through the tangled woods, and across swamps and 
streams, it was a journey of several days. Well, his 
little plantation is now grown to be a populous city; and 
the inhabitants have a great veneration for Roger 
Williams. His name is familiar in the mouths of all 
because they see it on their bank bills. How it would 

*7 


i8 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


have perplexed this good clergyman, if he had been 
told that he should give his name to the Roger 
Williams Bank!” 

“When he was driven from Massachusetts,” said 
Laurence, “and began his journey into the woods, he 
must have felt as if he were burying himself forever 
from the sight and knowledge of men. Yet the whole 
country has now heard of him, and will remember him 
forever.” 

“Yes,” answered Grandfather, “it often happens, 
that the outcasts of one generation are those who are 
reverenced as the wisest and best of men by the next. 
The securest fame is that which comes after a man’s 
death. But let us return to our story. When Roger 
Williams was banished, he appears to have given the 
chair to Mrs. Anne Hutchinson. At all events it was in 
her possession in 1637. She was a very sharp-witted 
and well-instructed lady, and was so conscious of her 
own wisdom and abilities, that she thought it a pity that 
the world should not have the benefit of them. She 
therefore used to hold lectures in Boston once or twice 
a week, at which most of the women attended. Mrs. 
Hutchinson presided at these meetings, sitting with 
great state and dignity in Grandfather’s chair.” 

“ Grandfather, was it positively this very chair ? ” 
demanded Clara, laying her hand upon its carved 
elbow. 

“ Why not, my dear Clara ? ” said Grandfather. 

“Well, Mrs. Hutchinson’s lectures soon caused a 
great disturbance; for the ministers of Boston did not 
think it safe and proper, that a woman should publicly 
instruct the people in religious doctrines. Moreover, 
she made the matter worse, by declaring that the Rev. 
Mr. Cotton was the only sincerely pious and holy 
clergyman in New England. Now the clergy of those 
days had quite as much share in the government of the 
country, though indirectly, as the magistrates them¬ 
selves ; so you may imagine what a host of powerful 
enemies were raised up against Mrs. Hutchinson. 
A synod was convened ; that is to say, an assemblage of 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l 9 


all the ministers in Massachusetts. They declared that 
there were eighty-two erroneous opinions on religious 
subjects, diffused among the people, and that Mrs. 
Hutchinson’s opinions were of the number.” 

“ If they had eighty-two wrong opinions,” observed 
Charley, “ I don’t see how they could have any right 
ones.” 

“ Mrs. Hutchinson had many zealous friends and 
converts,” continued Grandfather. “She was favored 
by young Henry Vane, who had come over from England 
a year or two before, and had since been chosen governor 
of the colony, at the age of twenty-four. But Winthrop, 
and most of the other leading men, as well as the minis¬ 
ters, felt an abhorrence of her doctrines. Thus two 
opposite parties were formed; and so fierce were the 
dissensions, that it was feared the consequence would be 
civil war and bloodshed. But Winthrop and the minis¬ 
ters being the most powerful, they disarmed and impris¬ 
oned Mrs. Hutchinson’s adherents. She, like Roger 
Williams, was banished.” 

“ Dear Grandfather, did they drive the poor woman 
into the woods ? ” exclaimed little Alice, who contrived 
to feel a human interest even in these discords of 
polemic divinity. 

“ They did, my darling,” replied Grandfather; “ and 
the end of her life was so sad, you must not hear it. At 
her departure, it appears, from the best authorities, that 
she gave the great chair to her friend, Henry Vane. He 
was a young man of wonderful talents and great learn¬ 
ing, who had imbibed the religious opinions of the 
Puritans, and left England with the intention of spend¬ 
ing his life in Massachusetts. The people chose him 
governor; but the controversy about Mrs. Hutchinson, 
and other troubles, caused him to leave the country in 
1637. You may read the subsequent events of his life 
in the History of England.” 

“ Yes, Grandfather,” cried Laurence; “ and we may 
read them better in Mr. Upham’s biography of Vane. 
And what a beautiful death he died, long afterwards! 
beautiful, though it was on a scaffold.” 


20 


GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR 


“ Many of the most beautiful deaths have been there,” 
said Grandfather. “ The enemies of a great and good 
man can in no other way make him so glorious, as by 
giving him the crown of martyrdom.” 

In order that the children might fully understand the 
all-important history of the chair, Grandfather now 
thought fit to speak of the progress that was made in 
settling several colonies. The settlement of Plymouth, 
in 1620, has already been mentioned. In 1635, Mr. 
Hooker and Mr. Stone, two ministers, went on foot 
from Massachusetts to Connecticut, through the pathless 
woods, taking their whole congregation along with them. 
They founded the town of Hartford. In 1638, Mr. 
Davenport, a very celebrated minister, went, with other 
people, and began a plantation at New Haven. In the 
same year, some persons who had been persecuted in 
Massachusetts went to the Isle of Rhodes, since called 
Rhode Island, and settled there. About this time, also, 
many settlers had gone to Maine, and were living with¬ 
out any regular government. There were likewise set¬ 
tlers near Piscataqua River, in the region which is now 
called New Hampshire. 

Thus, at various points along the coast of New Eng¬ 
land, there were communities of Englishmen. Though 
these communities were independent of one another, yet 
they had a common dependence upon England; and, at 
so vast a distance from their native home, the inhabit¬ 
ants must all have felt like brethren. They were fitted 
to become one united people at a future period. Per¬ 
haps their feelings of brotherhood were the stronger, 
because different nations had formed settlements to the 
north and to the south. In Canada and Nova Scotia 
were colonies of French. On the banks of the Hudson 
River was a colony of Dutch, who had taken possession 
of that region many years before, and called it New 
Netherlands. 

Grandfather, for aught I know, might have gone on 
to speak of Maryland and Virginia; for the good old 
gentleman really seemed to suppose that the whole sur¬ 
face of the United States was not too broad a founda- 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


21 


tion to place the four legs of his chair upon. But, 
happening to glance at Charley, he perceived that this 
naughty boy was growing impatient, and meditating 
another ride upon a stick. So here, for the present, 
Grandfather suspended the history of his chair. 


CHAPTER V 


T HE children had now learned to look upon the 
chair with an interest, which was almost the same 
as if it were a conscious being, and could remember the 
many famous people whom it had held within its arms. 

Even Charley, lawless as he was, seemed to feel that 
this venerable chair must not be clambered upon nor 
overturned, although he had no scruple in taking such 
liberties with every other chair in the house. Clara 
treated it with still greater reverence, often taking occa¬ 
sion to smooth its cushion, and to brush the dust from 
the carved flowers and grotesque figures of its oaken 
back and arms. Laurence would sometimes sit a whole 
hour, especially at twilight, gazing at the chair, and, by 
the spell of his imaginations, summoning up its ancient 
occupants to appear in it again. 

Little Alice evidently employed herself in a similar 
way; for once, when Grandfather had gone abroad, the 
child was heard talking with the gentle Lady Arbella, 
as if she were still sitting in the chair. So sweet a child 
as little Alice may fitly talk with angels, such as the 
Lady Arbella had long since become. 

Grandfather was soon importuned for more stories 
about the chair. He had no difficulty in relating them; 
for it really seemed as if every person, noted in our 
early history, had, on some occasion or other, found re¬ 
pose within its comfortable arms. If Grandfather took 
pride in anything it was in being the possessor of such 
an honorable and historic elbow chair. 

“ I know not precisely who next got possession of the 
chair, after Governor Vane went back to England,” said 
Grandfather. “ But there is reason to believe that 
President Dunster sat in it, when he held the first com¬ 
mencement at Harvard College. You have often heard, 
children, how careful our forefathers were to give their 

22 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


23 

young people a good education. They had scarcely cut 
down trees enough to make room for their own dwell¬ 
ings, before they began to think of establishing a col¬ 
lege. Their principal object was, to rear up pious and 
learned ministers; and hence old writers call Harvard 
College a school of the prophets.” 

“Is the college a school of the prophets now ? ” asked 
Charley. 

“ It is a long while since I took my degree, Charley. 
You must ask some of the recent graduates,” answered 
Grandfather. “ As I was telling you, President Dunster 
sat in Grandfather’s chair in 1642, when he conferred 
the degree of bachelor of arts on nine young men. 
They were the first in America who had received that 
honor. And now, my dear auditors, I must confess 
that there are contradictory statements and some uncer¬ 
tainty about the adventures of the chair, for a period of 
almost ten years. Some say that it was occupied by 
your own ancestor, William Hawthorne, first Speaker of 
the House of Representatives. I have nearly satisfied 
myself, however, that, during most of this questionable 
period, it was literally the Chair of State. It gives me 
much pleasure to imagine, that several successive gov¬ 
ernors of Massachusetts sat in it at the council board.” 

“But, Grandfather,” interposed Charley, who was a 
matter-of-fact little person, “ what reason have you to 
imagine so ? ” 

“ Pray do imagine it, Grandfather,” said Laurence. 

“With Charley’s permission, I will,” replied Grand¬ 
father, smiling. “ Let us consider it settled, therefore, 
that Winthrop, Bellingham, Dudley, and Endicott, each 
of them, when chosen governor, took his seat in our 
great chair on election day. In this chair, likewise, did 
those excellent governors preside, while holding con¬ 
sultations with the chief counsellors of the province, 
who were styled Assistants. The governor sat in this 
chair, too, whenever messages were brought to him from 
the chamber of Representatives.” 

And here Grandfather took occasion to talk, rather 
tediously, about the nature and forms of government 


24 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


that established themselves, almost spontaneously, in 
Massachusetts and the other New England colonies. 
Democracies were the natural growth of the new world. 
As to Massachusetts, it was at first intended that the 
colony should be governed by a council in London. 
But, in a little while, the people had the whole power 
in their own hands, and chose annually the governor, 
the counsellors, and the representatives. The people of 
old England had never enjoyed anything like the liber¬ 
ties and privileges, which the settlers of New England 
now possessed. And they did not adopt these modes of 
government after long study, but in simplicity, as if 
there were no other way for people to be ruled. 

“ But, Laurence,” continued Grandfather, “ when you 
want instruction on these points, you must seek it in 
Mr. Bancroft’s History. I am merely telling the history 
of a chair. To proceed. The period during which the 
governors sat in our chair was not very full of striking 
incidents. The province was now established on a 
secure foundation ; but it did not increase so rapidly as 
at first, because the Puritans were no longer driven from 
England by persecution. However, there was still a 
quiet and natural growth. The legislature incorporated 
towns, and made new purchases of lands from the 
Indians. A very memorable event took place in 1643. 
The colonies of Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut, 
and New Haven formed a union, for the purpose of 
assisting each other in difficulties, and for mutual 
defence against their enemies. They called themselves 
the United Colonies of New England.” 

“Were they under a government like that of the 
United States ? ” inquired Laurence. 

“ No,” replied Grandfather, “ the different colonies 
did not compose one nation together; it was merely a 
confederacy among the governments. It somewhat 
resembled the league of the Amphictyons, which you 
remember in Grecian history. But to return to our 
chair. In 1644 it was highly honored; for Governor 
Endicott sat in it, when he gave audience to an ambas¬ 
sador from the French governor of Acadie, or Nova 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


25 

Scotia. A treaty of peace, between Massachusetts and 
the French colony, was then signed.” 

“ Did England allow Massachusetts to make war and 
peace with foreign countries ? ” asked Laurence. 

“ Massachusetts, and the whole of New England, 
was then almost independent of the mother country,” 
said Grandfather. “There was now a civil war in 
England; and the king, as you may well suppose, had 
his hands full at home, and could pay but little atten¬ 
tion to these remote colonies. When the Parliament 
got the power into their hands, they likewise had 
enough to do in keeping down the Cavaliers. Thus 
New England, like a young and hardy lad, whose 
father and mother neglect it, was left to take care of 
itself. In 1649, King Charles was beheaded. Oliver 
Cromwell then became Protector of England; and as 
he was a Puritan himself, and had risen by the valor of 
the English Puritans, he showed himself a loving and 
indulgent father to the Puritan colonies in America.” 

Grandfather might have continued to talk in this dull 
manner, nobody knows how long; but, suspecting that 
Charley would find the subject rather dry, he looked 
sideways at that vivacious little fellow, and saw him give 
an involuntary yawn. Whereupon, Grandfather pro¬ 
ceeded with the history of the chair, and related a very 
entertaining incident, which will be found in the next 
chapter. 


CHAPTER VI 


CCORDING to the most authentic records, my 



dear children,” said Grandfather, “the chair, 
about this time, had the misfortune to break its leg. It 
was probably on account of this accident, that it ceased 
to be the seat of the governors of Massachusetts; for, 
assuredly, it would have been ominous of evil to the 
Commonwealth, if the Chair of State had tottered upon 
three legs. Being therefore sold at auction, — alas! 
what a vicissitude for a chair that had figured in such 
high company! — our venerable friend was knocked 
down to a certain Captain John Hull. This old gentle¬ 
man, on carefully examining the maimed chair, discov¬ 
ered that its broken leg might be clamped with iron, 
and made as serviceable as ever.” 

“ Here is the very leg that was broken ! ” exclaimed 
Charley, throwing himself down on the floor to look at 
it. “ And here are the iron clamps. How well it was 
mended! ” 

When they had all sufficiently examined the broken 
leg, Grandfather told them a story about Captain John 


Hull and 


The Pine-tree Shillings 


The Captain John Hull, aforesaid, was the mint- 
master of Massachusetts, and coined all the money that 
was made there. This was a new line of business ; for, 
in the earlier days of the colony, the current coinage 
consisted of gold and silver money of England, Portu¬ 
gal, and Spain. These coins being scarce, the people 
were often forced to barter their commodities, instead 
of selling them. 

For instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he per¬ 
haps exchanged a bear-skin for it. If he wished for a 


26 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


27 


barrel of molasses, he might purchase it with a pile of 
pine boards. Musket-bullets were used instead of farth¬ 
ings. The Indians had a sort of money, called wampum, 
which was made of clamshells; and this strange sort of 
specie was likewise taken in payment of debts, by the 
English settlers. Bank-bills had never been heard of. 
There was not money enough of any kind, in many 
parts of the country, to pay the salaries of the ministers ; 
so that they sometimes had to take quintals of fish, 
bushels of corn, or cords of wood, instead of silver or 
gold. 

As the people grew more numerous, and their trade 
one with another increased, the want of current money 
was still more sensibly felt. To supply the demand, 
the general court passed a law for establishing a coinage 
of shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Captain John 
Hull was appointed to manufacture this money, and 
was to have about one shilling out of every twenty to 
pay him for the trouble of making them. 

Hereupon, all the old silver in the colony was handed 
over to Captain John Hull. The battered silver cans 
and tankards, I suppose, and silver buckles, and broken 
spoons, and silver buttons of worn-out coats, and silver 
hilts of swords that had figured at court, — all such 
curious old articles were doubtless thrown into the melt¬ 
ing-pot together. But by far the greater part of the 
silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South 
America, which the English buccaneers — (who were 
little better than pirates)—had taken from the Spaniards, 
and brought to Massachusetts. 

All this old and new silver being melted down and 
coined, the result was an immense amount of splendid 
shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each had the 
date, 1652, on the one side, and the figure of a pine-tree 
on the other. Hence they were called pine-tree shillings, 
and for every twenty shillings that he coined, you will 
remember, Captain John Hull was entitled to put one 
shilling into his own pocket. 

The magistrates soon began to suspect that the mint- 
master would have the best of the bargain. They 


28 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


offered him a large sum of money, if he would but give 
up that twentieth shilling, which he was continually 
dropping into his own pocket. But Captain Hull de¬ 
clared himself perfectly satisfied with the shilling. And 
well he might be; for so diligently did he labor, that, 
in a few years, his pockets, his money-bags, and his 
strong-box were overflowing with pine-tree shillings. 
This was probably the case when he came into posses¬ 
sion of Grandfather’s chair; and, as he had worked so 
hard at the mint, it was certainly proper that he 
should have a comfortable chair to rest himself in. 

When the mint-master had grown very rich, a young 
man, Samuel Sewell by name, came a-courting to his 
only daughter. His daughter — whose name I do not 
know, but we will call her Betsey — was a fine, hearty 
damsel, by no means so slender as some young ladies of 
our own days. On the contrary, having always fed 
heartily on pumpkin pies, doughnuts, Indian puddings, 
and other Puritan dainties, she was as round and plump 
as a pudding herself. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, 
did Samuel Sewell fall in love. As he was a young man 
of good character, industrious in his business, and a 
member of the church, the mint-master very readily 
gave his consent. 

“Yes, you may take her,” said he, in his rough way; 
“ and you ’ll find her a heavy burden enough ! ” 

On the wedding-day, we may suppose that honest 
John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat, all the 
buttons of which were made of pine-tree shillings. The 
buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences ; and the knees 
of his small-clothes were buttoned with silver threepences. 
Thus attired, he sat with great dignity in Grandfather’s 
chair; and being a portly old gentleman, he completely 
filled it from elbow to elbow. On the opposite side of 
the room, between her bridemaids, sat Miss Betsey. 
She was blushing with all her might, and looked like 
a full-blown paeony, or a great red apple. 

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine 
purple coat, and gold lace waistcoat, with as much other 
finery as the Puritan laws and customs would allow him 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


29 


to put on. His hair was cropped close to his head, 
because Governor Endicott had forbidden any man to 
wear it below the ears. But he was a very personable 
young man; and so thought the bridemaids and Miss 
Betsey herself. 

The mint-master also was pleased with his new son-in- 
law; especially as he had courted Miss Betsey out of 
pure love, and had said nothing at all about her portion. 
So when the marriage ceremony was over, Captain Hull 
whispered a word to two of his men-servants, who im¬ 
mediately went out, and soon returned, lugging in a large 
pair of scales. They were such a pair as wholesale mer¬ 
chants use for weighing bulky commodities; and quite 
a bulky commodity was now to be weighed in them. 

“ Daughter Betsey,” said the mint-master, “ get into 
one side of these scales.” 

Miss Betsey, — or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call 
her, — did as she was bid, like a dutiful child, without 
any question of the why and wherefore. But what her 
father could mean, unless to make her husband pay for 
her by the pound, (in which case she would have been 
a dear bargain,) she had not the least idea. 

“And now,” said honest John Hull to the servants, 
“ bring that box hither.” 

The box, to which the mint-master pointed, was a 
huge, square, iron-bound, oaken chest; it was big enough, 
my children, for all four of you to play at hide-and-seek 
in. The servants tugged with might and main, but 
could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were finally 
obliged to drag it across the floor. Captain Hull then 
took a key from his girdle, unlocked the chest, and 
lifted its ponderous lid. Behold ! it was full to the brim 
of bright pine-tree shillings, fresh from the mint; and 
Samuel Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had 
got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts 
treasury. But it was only the mint-master’s honest share 
of the coinage. 

Then the servants, at Captain Hull’s command, heaped 
double handfuls of shillings into one side of the scales, 
while Betsey remained in the other. Jingle, jingle went 


30 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


the shillings, as handful after handful was thrown in, 
till, plump and ponderous as she was, they fairly weighed 
the young lady from the floor. 

“ There, son Sewell! ” cried the honest mint-master, 
resuming his seat in Grandfather’s chair, “take these 
shillings for my daughter’s portion. Use her kindly, and 
thank Heaven for her. It is not every wife that’s 
worth her weight in silver ! ” 

The children laughed heartily at this legend, and 
would hardly be convinced but that Grandfather had 
made it out of his own head. He assured them faith¬ 
fully, however, that he had found it in the pages of a 
grave historian, and had merely tried to tell it in a some¬ 
what funnier style. As for Samuel Sewell, he afterwards 
became Chief Justice of Massachusetts. 

“Well, Grandfather,” remarked Clara, “if wedding 
portions nowadays were paid as Miss Betsey’s was, 
young ladies would not pride themselves upon an airy 
figure, as many of them do.” 



I INGLE, JINGLE, WENT THE SHILLINGS.” 



















CHAPTER VII 


W HEN his little audience next assembled round the 
chair, Grandfather gave them a doleful history 
of the Quaker persecution, which began in 1656, and 
raged for about three years in Massachusetts. 

He told them how, in the first place, twelve of the 
converts of George Fox, the first Quaker in the world, 
had come over from England. They seemed to be 
impelled by an earnest love for the souls of men, and a 
pure desire to make known what they considered a 
revelation from Heaven. But the rulers looked upon 
them as plotting the downfall of all government and 
religion. They were banished from the colony. In a 
little while, however, not only the first twelve had 
returned, but a multitude of other Quakers had come to 
rebuke the rulers, and to preach against the priests and 
steeple-houses. 

Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with 
which these enthusiasts were received. They were 
thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with many 
stripes, women as well as men; they were driven forth 
into the wilderness, and left to the tender mercies of 
wild beasts and Indians. The children were amazed to 
hear, that, the more the Quakers were scourged, and 
imprisoned, and banished, the more did the sect increase, 
both by the influx of strangers, and by converts from 
among the Puritans. But Grandfather told them, that 
God had put something into the soul of man, which 
always turned the cruelties of the persecutor to naught. 

He went on to relate, that, in 1659, two Quakers, 
named William Robinson and Marmaduke Stephenson, 
were hanged at Boston. A woman had been sentenced 
to die with them, but was reprieved, on condition of her 
leaving the colony. Her name was Mary Dyer. In the 
year 1660 she returned to Boston, although she knew 

31 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


32 

death awaited her there; and, if Grandfather had been 
correctly informed, an incident had then taken place, 
which connects her with our story. This Mary Dyer 
had entered the mint-master’s dwelling, clothed in sack¬ 
cloth and ashes, and seated herself in our great chair, 
with a sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded 
to deliver what she called a message from Heaven; but 
in the midst of it, they dragged her to prison. 

“ And was she executed ? ” asked Laurence. 

“ She was,” said Grandfather. 

“ Grandfather,” cried Charley, clenching his fist, “ I 
would have fought for that poor Quaker woman ! ” 

“ Ah! but if a sword had been drawn for her,” said 
Laurence, “ it would have taken away all the beauty of 
her death.” 

It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories 
had thrown such an interest around Grandfather’s chair, 
as did the fact, that the poor, persecuted, wandering 
Quaker woman had rested in it for a moment. The 
children were so much excited, that Grandfather found 
it necessary to bring his account of the persecution to 
a close. 

“In 1660, the same year in which Mary Dyer was 
executed,” said he, “ Charles the Second was restored 
to the throne of his fathers. This king had many vices ; 
but he would not permit blood to be shed, under pretence 
of religion, in any part of his dominions. The Quakers 
in England told him what had been done to their breth¬ 
ren in Massachusetts; and he sent orders to Governor 
Endicott to forbear all such proceedings in future. And 
so ended the Quaker persecution,—one of the most 
mournful passages in the history of our forefathers.” 

Grandfather then told his auditors, that, shortly after 
the above incident, the great chair had been given by 
the mint-master to the Rev. Mr. John Eliot. He was the 
first minister of Roxbury. But besides attending to his 
pastoral duties there, he learned the language of the red 
men, and often went into the woods to preach to them. 
So earnestly did he labor for their conversion, that he 
has always been called the apostle to the Indians. The 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


33 


mention of this holy man suggested to Grandfather the 
propriety of giving a brief sketch of the history of 
the Indians, so far as they were connected with the 
English colonists. 

A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims at 
Plymouth, there had been a very grievous plague among 
the red men; and the sages and ministers of that day 
were inclined to the opinion, that Providence had sent 
this mortality, in order to make room for the settlement 
of the English. But I know not why we should sup¬ 
pose that an Indian’s life is less precious, in the eye of 
Heaven, than that of a white man. Be that as it may, 
death had certainly been very busy with the savage 
tribes. 

In many places the English found the wigwams de¬ 
serted, and the corn-fields growing to waste, with none to 
harvest the grain. There were heaps of earth also, which, 
being dug open, proved to be Indian graves, containing 
bows and flint-headed spears and arrows; for the Indians 
buried the dead warrior’s weapons along with him. In 
some spots, there were skulls and other human bones, 
lying unburied. In 1633, and the year afterwards, the 
small-pox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians, 
multitudes of whom died by this terrible disease of the 
old world. These misfortunes made them far less 
powerful than they had formerly been. 

For nearly half a century after the arrival of the 
English, the red men showed themselves generally in¬ 
clined to peace and amity. They often made submis¬ 
sion, when they might have made successful war. The 
Plymouth settlers, led by the famous Captain Miles 
Standish, slew some of them in 1623, without any very 
evident necessity for so doing. In 1636, and the follow¬ 
ing year, there was the most dreadful war that had yet 
occurred between the Indians and the English. The 
Connecticut settlers, assisted by a celebrated Indian 
chief, named Uncas, bore the brunt of this war, with 
but little aid from Massachusetts. Many hundreds of 
the hostile Indians were slain, or burnt in their wig¬ 
wams. Sassacus, their sachem, fled to another tribe, 


34 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


after his own people were defeated; but he was mur¬ 
dered by them, and his head was sent to his English 
enemies. 

From that period, down to the time of King Philip's 
war, which will be mentioned hereafter, there was not 
much trouble with the Indians. But the colonists were 
always on their guard, and kept their weapons ready 
for the conflict. 

“ I have sometimes doubted," said Grandfather, when 
he had told these things to the children, “ I have some¬ 
times doubted whether there was more than a single 
man, among our forefathers, who realized that an Indian 
possesses a mind and a heart, and an immortal soul. 
That single man was John Eliot. All the rest of the 
early settlers seemed to think that the Indians were an 
inferior race of beings, whom the Creator had merely 
allowed to keep possession of this beautiful country, till 
the white men should be in want of it." 

“ Did the pious men of those days never try to make 
Christians of them ? " asked Laurence. 

“ Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather, “the 
magistrates and ministers would talk about civilizing and 
converting the red people. But at the bottom of their 
hearts, they would have had almost as much expectation 
of civilizing a wild bear of the woods, and making him 
fit for paradise. They felt no faith in the success of any 
such attempts, because they had no love for the poor 
Indians. Now Eliot was full of love for them, and 
therefore so full of faith and hope, that he spent the 
labor of a lifetime in their behalf." 

“ I would have conquered them first, and then con¬ 
verted then," said Charley. 

“ Ah, Charley, there spoke the very spirit of our fore¬ 
fathers !" replied Grandfather. “ But Mr. Eliot had a 
better spirit. He looked upon them as his brethren. 
He persuaded as many of them as he could to leave off 
their idle and wandering habits, and to build houses, 
and cultivate the earth, as the English did. He estab¬ 
lished schools among them, and taught many of the 
Indians how to read. He taught them, likewise, how 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


35 


to pray. Hence they were called ‘praying Indians.’ 
Finally, having spent the best years of his life for their 
good, Mr. Eliot resolved to spend the remainder in doing 
them a yet greater benefit.” 

“ I know what that was! ” cried Laurence. 

“ He sat down in his study,” continued Grandfather, 
“ and began a translation of the Bible into the Indian 
tongue. It was while he was engaged in this pious 
work, that the mint-master gave him our great chair. 
His toil needed it, and deserved it.” 

“ Oh, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian Bible ! ” 
exclaimed Laurence. “ I have seen it in the library of 
the Athenaeum; and the tears came into my eyes, to 
think that there were no Indians left to read it.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


S Grandfather was a great admirer of the Apostle 



Eliot, he was glad to comply with the earnest re¬ 
quest which Laurence had made at the close of the last 
chapter. So he proceeded to describe how good Mr. 
Eliot labored, while he was at work upon 


The Indian Bible 


My dear children, what a task would you think it, 
even with a long lifetime before you, were you bidden 
to copy every chapter and verse, and word, in yonder 
great family Bible ! Would not this be a heavy toil ? 
But if the task were, not to write off the English Bible, 
but to learn a language, utterly unlike all other tongues, 
— a language which hitherto had never been learned, 
except by the Indians themselves, from their mother’s 
lips, — a language never written, and the strange words 
of which seemed inexpressible by letters; — if the task 
were, first to learn this new variety of speech, and then 
to translate the Bible into it, and to do it so carefully, 
that not one idea throughout the holy book should be 
changed, — what would induce you to undertake this 
toil ? Yet this was what the Apostle Eliot did. 

It was a mighty work for a man, now growing old, to 
take upon himself. And what earthly reward could he 
expect from it? None; no reward on earth. But he 
believed that the red men were the descendants of those 
lost tribes of Israel of whom history has been able to 
tell us nothing for thousands of years. He hoped that 
God had sent the English across the ocean, Gentiles as 
they were, to enlighten this benighted portion of His 
once chosen race. And when he should be summoned 
hence, he trusted to meet blessed spirits in another 
world, whose bliss would have . been earned by his 


t 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


37 


patient toil, in translating the Word of God. This hope 
and trust were far dearer to him than anything that 
earth could offer. 

Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by 
learned men, who desired to know what literary under¬ 
taking Mr. Eliot had in hand. They, like himself, had 
been bred in the studious cloisters of a university, and 
were supposed to possess all the erudition which man¬ 
kind has hoarded up from age to age. Greek and Latin 
were as familiar to them as the babble of their childhood. 
Hebrew was like their mother tongue. They had grown 
gray in study; their eyes were bleared with poring over 
print and manuscript by the light of the midnight lamp. 

And yet, how much had they left unlearned! Mr. 
Eliot would put into their hands some of the pages which 
he had been writing; and behold ! the gray-headed men 
stammered over the long, strange words, like a little 
child in his first attempts to read. Then would the 
apostle call to him an Indian boy, one of his scholars, 
and show him the manuscript, which had so puzzled the 
learned Englishmen. 

“ Read this, my child,” said he, “ these are some breth¬ 
ren of mine, who would fain hear the sound of thy native 
tongue.” 

Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the mys¬ 
terious page, and read it so skilfully, that it sounded 
like wild music. It seemed as if the forest leaves were 
singing in the ears of his auditors, and as if the roar of 
distant streams were poured through the young Indian’s 
voice. Such were the sounds amid which the language 
of the red man had been formed; and they were still 
heard to echo in it. 

The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the Ind¬ 
ian boy an apple or a cake, and bid him leap forth into 
the open air, which his free nature loved. The apostle 
was kind to children, and even shared in their sports 
sometimes. And when his visitors had bidden him fare¬ 
well, the good man turned patiently to his toil again. 

No other Englishman had ever understood the Indian , 
character so well, nor possessed so great an influence 


3 » 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


over the New England tribes, as the apostle did. His 
advice and assistance must often have been valuable to 
his countrymen, in their transactions with the Indians. 
Occasionally, perhaps, the governor and some of the 
counsellors came to visit Mr. Eliot. Perchance they 
were seeking some method to circumvent the forest 
people. They inquired, it may be, how they could ob¬ 
tain possession of such and such a tract of their rich 
land. Or they talked of making the Indians their ser¬ 
vants, as if God had destined them for perpetual bond¬ 
age to the more powerful white man. 

Perhaps, too, some warlike captain, dressed in his 
buff-coat, with a corslet beneath it, accompanied the 
governor and counsellors. Laying his hand upon his 
sword-hilt, he would declare, that the only method of 
dealing with the red men was to meet them with the 
sword drawn, and the musket presented. 

But the apostle resisted both the craft of the politician, 
and the fierceness of the warrior. 

“ Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren,” 
he would say, “ and let us endeavor to make them Chris¬ 
tians. Their forefathers were of that chosen race, whom 
God delivered from Egyptian bondage. Perchance He 
has destined us to deliver the children from the more 
cruel bondage of ignorance and idolatry. Chiefly for 
this end, it may be, we were directed across the 
ocean.” 

When these other visitors were gone, Mr. Eliot bent 
himself again over the half-written page. He dared 
hardly relax a moment from his toil. He felt that, in 
the book which he was translating, there was a deep 
human, as well as heavenly wisdom, which would of 
itself suffice to civilize and refine the savage tribes. Let 
the Bible be diffused among them, and all earthly good 
would follow. But how slight a consideration was this, 
when he reflected that the eternal welfare of a whole race 
of men depended upon his accomplishment of the task 
which he had set himself ! What if his hands should 
be palsied ? What if his mind should lose its vigor ? 
What if death should come upon him, ere the work were 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


39 

done ? Then must the red man wander in the dark 
wilderness of heathenism forever. 

Impelled by such thoughts as these, he sat writing in 
the great chair, when the pleasant summer breeze came 
in through his open casement ; and also when the fire 
of forest logs sent up its blaze and smoke, through the 
broad stone chimney, into the wintry air. Before the 
earliest bird sang, in the morning, the apostle’s lamp 
was kindled; and, at midnight, his weary head was not 
yet upon its pillow. And at length, leaning back in the 
great chair, he could say to himself, with a holy tri¬ 
umph, — “ The work is finished ! ” 

It was finished. Here was a Bible for the Indians. 
Those long-lost descendants of the ten tribes of Israel 
would now learn the history of their forefathers. That 
grace, which the ancient Israelites had forfeited, was 
offered anew to their children. 

There is no impiety in believing that, when his long 
life was over, the apostle of the Indians was welcomed 
to the celestial abodes by the prophets of ancient days, 
and by those earliest apostles and evangelists, who had 
drawn their inspiration from the immediate presence of 
the Saviour. They first had preached truth and salva¬ 
tion to the world. And Eliot, separated from them by 
many centuries, yet full of the same spirit, had borne 
the like message to the new world of the West. Since 
the first days of Christianity, there has been no man 
more worthy to be numbered in the brotherhood of the 
apostles, than Eliot. 

“ My heart is not satisfied to think,” observed Lau¬ 
rence, “ that Mr. Eliot’s labors have done no good, 
except to a few Indians of his own time. Doubtless, he 
would not have regretted his toil, if it were the means 
of saving but a single soul. But it is a grievous thing 
to me, that he should have toiled so hard to translate 
the Bible, and now the language and the people are 
gone! The Indian Bible itself is almost the only relic 
of both.” 

“Laurence,” said his Grandfather, “if ever you 


4 ° 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR . 


should doubt that man is capable of disinterested zeal 
for his brother’s good, then remember how the Apostle 
Eliot toiled. And if you should feel your own self- 
interest pressing upon your heart too closely, then think 
of Eliot’s Indian Bible. It is good for the world that 
such a man has lived, and left this emblem of his life.” 

The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and he 
acknowledged that Eliot had not toiled in vain. Little 
Alice put up her arms to Grandfather, and drew down 
his white head beside her own golden locks. 

“ Grandfather,” whispered she, “ I want to kiss good 
Mr. Eliot! ” 

And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly receive 
the kiss of so sweet a child as little Alice, and would 
think it a portion of his reward in heaven. 

Grandfather now observed, that Dr. Francis had 
written a very beautiful life of Eliot, which he advised 
Laurence to peruse. He then spoke of King Philip’s 
war, which began in 1675, and terminated with the 
death of King Philip, in the following year. Philip 
was a proud, fierce Indian, whom Mr. Eliot had vainly 
endeavored to convert to the Christian faith. 

“ It must have been a great anguish to the apostle,” 
continued Grandfather, “ to hear of mutual slaughter 
and outrage between his own countrymen and those for 
whom he felt the affection of a father. A few of the 
praying Indians jtfined the followers of King Philip. 
A greater number fought on the side of the English. 
In the course of the war, the little community of red 
people whom Mr. Eliot had begun to civilize, was scat¬ 
tered, and probably never was restored to a flourishing 
condition. But his zeal did not grow cold; and only 
about five years before his death he took great pains in 
preparing a new edition of the Indian Bible.” 

“ I do wish, Grandfather,” cried Charley, “ you would 
tell us all about the battles in King Philip’s war.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” exclaimed Clara. “ Who wants to hear 
about tomahawks and scalping knives ! ” 

“No, Charley,” replied Grandfather, “I have no time 
to spare in talking about battles. You must be content 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


41 


with knowing that it was the bloodiest war that the 
Indians had ever waged against the white men ; and 
that, at its close, the English set King Philip’s head 
upon a pole.” 

“ Who was the captain of the English ? ” asked 
Charley. 

“Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,— 
a very famous warrior,” said Grandfather. “ But I 
assure you, Charley, that neither Captain Church, nor 
any of the officers and soldiers who fought in King 
Philip’s war, did anything a thousandth part so glorious 
as Mr. Eliot did, when he translated the Bible for the 
Indians.” 

M Let Laurence be the apostle,” said Charley to him¬ 
self, “ and I will be the captain.” 


CHAPTER IX 



HE children were now accustomed to assemble 


1 round Grandfather’s chair, at all their unoccupied 
moments; and often it was a striking picture to behold 
the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath of 
young people around him. When he talked to them, it 
was the past speaking to the present, or rather to the 
future,—for the children were of a generation which 
had not become actual. Their part in life, thus far, 
was only to be happy, and to draw knowledge from a 
thousand sources. As yet, it was not their time to do. 

Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair, un¬ 
worldly countenances, a mist of tears bedimmed his 
spectacles. He almost regretted that it was necessary 
for them to know anything of the past, or to provide 
aught for the future. He could have wished that they 
might be always the happy, youthful creatures, who had 
hitherto sported around his chair, without inquiring 
whether it had a history. It grieved him to think that 
his little Alice, who was a flower-bud fresh from para¬ 
dise, must open her leaves to the rough breezes of the 
world, or ever open them in any clime. So sweet a 
child she was, that it seemed fit her infancy should be 
immortal! 

But such repinings were merely flitting shadows 
across the old man’s heart. He had faith enough to 
believe, and wisdom enough to know, that the bloom of 
the flower would be even holier and happier than its 
bud. Even within himself, — though Grandfather was 
now at that period of life when the veil of mortality is 
apt to hang heavily over the soul, — still, in his inmost 
being, he was conscious of something that he would not 
have exchanged for the best happiness of childhood. It 
was a bliss to which every sort of earthly experience, — 
all that he had enjoyed or suffered, or seen, or heard, 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


43 


or acted, with the broodings of his soul upon the whole, 
— had contributed somewhat. In the same manner 
must a bliss, of which now they could have no concep¬ 
tion, grow up within these children, and form a part of 
their sustenance for immortality. 

So Grandfather, with renewed cheerfulness, continued 
his history of the chair, trusting that a profounder wis¬ 
dom than his own would extract, from these flowers and 
weeds of Time, a fragrance that might last beyond all 
time. 

At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a glance 
backward, as far as the year 1660. He spoke of the 
ill-concealed reluctance with which the Puritans in 
America had acknowledged the sway of Charles the 
Second, on his restoration to his father’s throne. When 
death had stricken Oliver Cromwell, that mighty pro¬ 
tector had no sincerer mourners than in New England. 
The new king had been more than a year upon the 
throne before his accession was proclaimed in Boston, 
although the neglect to perform the ceremony might 
have subjected the rulers to the charge of treason. 

During the reign of Charles the Second, however, the 
American colonies had but little reason to complain of 
harsh or tyrannical treatment. But when Charles died, 
in 1685, and was succeeded by his brother James, the 
patriarchs of New England began to tremble. King 
James was a bigoted Roman Catholic, and was known 
to be of an arbitrary temper. It was feared by all 
Protestants, and chiefly by the Puritans, that he would 
assume despotic power and attempt to establish Popery 
throughout his dominions. Our forefathers felt that 
they had no security either for their religion or their 
liberties. 

The result proved that they had reason for their 
apprehensions. King James caused the charters of all 
the American colonies to be taken away. The old 
charter of Massachusetts, which the people regarded 
as a holy thing, and as the foundation of all their 
liberties, was declared void. The colonists were now no 
longer freemen; they were entirely dependent on the 


44 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


king’s pleasure. At first, in 1685, King James appointed 
Joseph Dudley, a native of Massachusetts, to be Presi¬ 
dent of New England. But soon afterwards, Sir 
Edmund Andros, an officer of the English army, arrived, 
with a commission to be Governor-general of New Eng¬ 
land and New York. 

The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund 
Andros, that there was now no liberty, nor scarcely any 
law in the colonies over which he ruled. The inhabitants 
were not allowed to choose representatives, and conse¬ 
quently had no voice whatever in the government, nor 
control over the measures that were adopted. The 
counsellors, with whom the governor consulted on 
matters of state, were appointed by himself. This 
sort of government was no better than an absolute 
despotism. 

“ The people suffered much wrong, while Sir Edmund 
Andros ruled over them,” continued Grandfather, “ and 
they were apprehensive of much more. He had brought 
some soldiers with him from England, who took posses¬ 
sion of the old fortress on Castle Island, and of the 
fortification on Fort Hill. Sometimes it was rumored 
that a general massacre of the inhabitants was to be 
perpetrated by these soldiers. There were reports, too, 
that all the ministers were to be slain or imprisoned.” 

“ For what ? ” inquired Charley. 

“ Because they were the leaders of the people, 
Charley,” said Grandfather. “A minister was a more 
formidable man than a general, in those days. Well, 
while these things were going on in America, King 
James had so misgoverned the people of England, that 
they sent over to Holland for the Prince of Orange. 
He had married the king’s daughter, and was therefore 
considered to have a claim to the crown. On his 
arrival in England, the Prince of Orange was proclaimed 
king, by the name of William the Third. Poor old 
King James made his escape to France.” 

Grandfather told how, at the first intelligence of the 
landing of the Prince of Orange in England, the people 
of Massachusetts rose in their strength, and overthrew 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


45 


the government of Sir Edmund Andros. He, with 
Joseph Dudley, Edmund Randolph, and his other prin¬ 
cipal adherents, were thrown into prison. Old Simon 
Bradstreet, who had been governor, when King James 
took away the charter, was called by the people to 
govern them again. 

“Governor Bradstreet was a venerable old man, 
nearly ninety years of age,” said Grandfather. “ He 
came over with the first settlers, and had been the in¬ 
timate companion of all those excellent and famous men 
who laid the foundation of our country. They were all 
gone before him to the grave; and Bradstreet was the 
last of the Puritans.” 

Grandfather paused a moment, and smiled, as if he 
had something very interesting to tell his auditors. He 
then proceeded: — 

“ And now, Laurence, — now, Clara, — now, Charley, 
— now, my dear little Alice, — what chair do you think 
had been placed in the council chamber, for old Governor 
Bradstreet to take his seat in ? Would you believe that 
it was this very chair in which Grandfather now sits, and 
of which he is telling you the history ? ” 

“ I am glad to hear it, with all my heart! ” cried 
Charley, after a shout of delight. “ I thought Grand¬ 
father had quite forgotten the chair.” 

“ It was a solemn and affecting sight,” said Grand¬ 
father, “when this venerable patriarch, with his white 
beard flowing down upon his breast, took his seat in his 
Chair of State. Within his remembrance and even since 
his mature age, the site where now stood the populous 
town, had been a wild and forest-covered peninsula. 
The province, now so fertile, and spotted with thriving 
villages, had been a desert wilderness. He was sur¬ 
rounded by a shouting multitude, most of whom had 
been born in the country which he had helped to found. 
They were of one generation, and he of another. As 
the old man looked upon them and beheld new faces 
everywhere, he must have felt that it was now time 
for him to go, whither his brethren had gone before 
him.” 


46 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


“ Were the former governors all dead and gone ? ” 
asked Laurence. 

“All of them,” replied Grandfather. “ Winthrop had 
been dead forty years. Endicott died, a very old man, 
in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded in London, at 
the beginning of the reign of Charles the Second. And 
Haynes, Dudley, Bellingham and Leverett, who had all 
been governors of Massachusetts, were now likewise in 
their graves. Old Simon Bradstreet was the sole repre¬ 
sentative of that departed brotherhood. There was no 
other public man remaining to connect the ancient 
system of government and manners with the new system 
which was about to take its place. The era of the 
Puritans was now completed.” 

“ I am sorry for it,” observed Laurence ; “for, though 
they were so stern, yet it seems to me that there was 
something warm and real about them. I think, Grand¬ 
father, that each of these old governors should have his 
statue set up in our State House, sculptured out of the 
hardest of New England granite.” 

. “ It would not be amiss, Laurence,” said Grandfather ; 
“but perhaps clay, or some other perishable material, 
might suffice for some of their successors. But let us 
go back to our chair. It was occupied by Governor 
Bradstreet from April, 1689, until May, 1692. Sir Will¬ 
iam Phipps then arrived in Boston, with a new charter 
from King William, and a commission to be governor.” 


CHAPTER X 


ND what became of the chair?” inquired 



Clara. 


“The outward aspect of our chair,” replied Grand¬ 
father, “ was now somewhat the worse for its long and 
arduous services. It was considered hardly magnificent 
enough to be allowed to keep its place in the council 
chamber of Massachusetts. In fact, it was banished as 
an article of useless lumber. But Sir William Phipps 
happened to see it, and being much pleased with its 
construction, resolved to take the good old chair into 
his private mansion. Accordingly, with his own guber¬ 
natorial hands, he repaired one of its arms, which had 
been slightly damaged.” 

“ Why, Grandfather, here is the very arm! ” inter¬ 
rupted Charley, in great wonderment. “ And did Sir 
William Phipps put in these screws with his own hands ? 
I am sure, he did it beautifully! But how came a 
governor to know how to mend a chair ? ” 

“ I will tell you a story about the early life of Sir 
William Phipps,” said Grandfather. “You will then 
perceive that he well knew how to use his hands.” 

So Grandfather related the wonderful and true tale of 


The Sunken Treasure 


Picture to yourselves, my dear children, a handsome, 
old-fashioned room, with a large, open cupboard at one 
end, in which is displayed a magnificent gold cup, with 
some other splendid articles of gold and silver plate. In 
another part of the room, opposite to a tall looking-glass, 
stands our beloved chair, newly polished, and adorned 
with a gorgeous cushion of crimson velvet tufted with 
gold. 

In the chair sits a man of strong and sturdy frame, 


47 


48 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


whose face has been roughened by northern tempests, 
and blackened by the burning sun of the West Indies. 
He wears an immense periwig, flowing down over his 
shoulders. His coat has a wide embroidery of golden 
foliage; and his waistcoat, likewise, is all flowered over 
and bedizened with gold. His red, rough hands, which 
have done many a good day’s work with the hammer 
and adze, are half covered by the delicate lace ruffles at 
his wrists. On a table lies his silver-hilted sword, and 
in a corner of the room stands his gold-headed cane, 
made of a beautifully polished West Indian wood. 

Somewhat such an aspect as this did Sir William 
Phipps present, when he sat in Grandfather’s chair, after 
the king had appointed him governor of Massachusetts. 
Truly, there was need that the old chair should be 
varnished, and decorated with a crimson cushion, in 
order to make it suitable for such a magnificent-looking 
personage. 

But Sir William Phipps had not always worn a gold- 
embroidered coat, nor always sat so much at his ease as 
he did in Grandfather’s chair. He was a poor man’s 
son, and was born in the Province of Maine, where he 
used to tend sheep upon the hills, in his boyhood and 
youth. Until he had grown to be a man, he did not 
even know how to read and write. Tired of tending 
sheep, he next apprenticed himself to a ship-carpenter, 
and spent about four years in hewing the crooked limbs 
of oak-trees into knees for vessels. 

In 1673, when he was twenty-two years old, he came 
to Boston, and soon afterwards was married to a widow 
lady, who had property enough to set him up in busi¬ 
ness. It was not long, however, before he lost all the 
money that he had acquired by his marriage, and be¬ 
came a poor man again. Still he was not discouraged. 
He often told his wife that some time or other he should 
be very rich, and would build a “ fair brick house ” in 
the Green Lane of Boston. 

Do not suppose, children, that he had been to a for¬ 
tune-teller to inquire his destiny. It was his own energy 
and spirit of enterprise, and his resolution to lead an 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


49 

industrious life, that made him look forward with so 
much confidence to better days. 

Several years passed away; and William Phipps had 
not yet gained the riches which he promised to himself. 
During this time he had begun to follow the sea for a 
living. In the year 1684, he happened to hear of a 
Spanish ship, which had been cast away near the Ba¬ 
hama Islands, and which was supposed to contain a 
great deal of gold and silver. Phipps went to the place 
in a small vessel, hoping that he should be able to re¬ 
cover some of the treasure from the wreck. He did not 
succeed, however, in fishing up gold and silver enough 
to pay the expenses of his voyage. 

But, before he returned, he was told of another Span¬ 
ish ship or galleon, which had been cast away near 
Porto de la Plata. She had now lain as much as fifty 
years beneath the waves. This old ship had been laden 
with immense wealth ; and hitherto nobody had thought 
of the possibility of recovering any part of it from the 
deep sea, which was rolling and tossing it about. But 
though it was now an old story, and the most aged people 
had almost forgotten that such a vessel had been wrecked, 
William Phipps resolved that the sunken treasure should 
again be brought to light. 

He went to London, and obtained admittance to King 
James, who had not yet been driven from his throne. 
He told the king of the vast wealth that was lying at the 
bottom of the sea. King James listened with attention, 
and thought this a fine opportunity to fill his treasury 
with Spanish gold. He appointed William Phipps to 
be captain of a vessel, called the Rose Algier, carrying 
eighteen guns and ninety-five men. So now he was 
Captain Phipps of the English navy. 

Captain Phipps sailed from England in the Rose 
Algier, and cruised for nearly two years in the West 
Indies, endeavoring to find the wreck of the Spanish 
ship. But the sea is so wide and deep, that it is no easy 
matter to discover the exact spot where a sunken vessel 
lies. The prospect of success seemed very small; and 
most people would have thought that Captain Phipps 


5 ° 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


was as far from having money enough to build a “ fair 
brick house,” as he was while he tended sheep. 

The seamen of the Rose Algier became discouraged, 
and gave up all hope of making their fortunes by dis¬ 
covering the Spanish wreck. They wanted to com¬ 
pel Captain Phipps to turn pirate. There was a much 
better prospect, they thought, of growing rich by plun¬ 
dering vessels, which still sailed in the sea, than by seek¬ 
ing for a ship that had lain beneath the waves full half 
a century. They broke out in open mutiny, but were 
finally mastered by Phipps, and compelled to obey his 
orders. It would have been dangerous, however, to 
continue much longer at sea with such a crew of muti¬ 
nous sailors; and, besides, the Rose Algier was leaky and 
unseaworthy. So Captain Phipps judged it best to 
return to England. 

Before leaving the West Indies, he met with a Span¬ 
iard, an old man, who remembered the wreck of the 
Spanish ship, and gave him directions how to find the 
very spot. It was on a reef of rocks a few leagues from 
Porto de la Plata. 

On his arrival in England, therefore, Captain Phipps 
solicited the king to let him have another vessel, and 
send him back again to the West Indies. But King 
James, who had probably expected that the Rose Algier 
would return laden with gold, refused to have anything 
more to do with the affair. Phipps might never 
have been able to renew the search, if the Duke of 
Albemarle, and some other noblemen, had not lent their 
assistance. They fitted out a ship and gave the com¬ 
mand to Captain Phipps. He sailed from England, and 
arrived safely at Porto de la Plata, where he took an 
adze and assisted his men to build a large boat. 

The boat was intended for the purpose of going closer 
to the reef of rocks than a large vessel could safely ven¬ 
ture. When it was finished, the Captain sent several 
men in it, to examine the spot where the Spanish ship 
was said to have been wrecked. They were accom¬ 
panied by some Indians, who were skilful divers, and 
could go down a great way into the depths of the sea. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


5 1 


The boat’s crew proceeded to the reef of rocks, and 
rowed round and round it a great many times. They 
gazed down into the water, which was so transparent 
that it seemed as if they could have seen the gold and 
silver at the bottom, had there been any of those pre¬ 
cious metals there. Nothing, however, could they see; 
nothing more valuable than a curious sea-shrub, which 
was growing beneath the water, in a crevice of the reef 
of rocks. It flaunted to and fro with the swell and reflux 
of the waves, and looked as bright and beautiful as if 
its leaves were gold. 

“ We won’t go back empty-handed,” cried an English 
sailor; and then he spoke to one of the Indian divers: 
“ Dive down and bring me that pretty sea-shrub there. 
That’s the only treasure we shall find ! ” 

Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping from 
the water, holding the sea-shrub in his hand. But he 
had learnt some news at the bottom of the sea. 

“There are some ship’s guns,” said he, the moment 
he had drawn breath, “ some great cannon among the 
rocks, near where the shrub was growing.” 

No sooner had he spoken, than the English sailors 
knew that they had found the very spot where the Span¬ 
ish galleon had been wrecked so many years before. 
The other Indian divers immediately plunged over the 
boat’s side, and swam headlong down, groping among 
the rocks and sunken cannon. In a few moments one 
of them rose above the water, with a heavy lump of 
silver in his arms. That single lump was worth more 
than a thousand dollars. The sailors took it into the 
boat, and then rowed back as speedily as they could, 
being in haste to inform Captain Phipps of their good 
luck. 

But, confidently as the Captain had hoped to find the 
Spanish wreck, yet now that it was really found, the 
news seemed too good to be true. He could not believe 
it till the sailors showed him the lump of silver. 

“ Thanks be to God! ” then cries Captain Phipps. 
“ We shall every man of us make our fortunes! ” 

Hereupon the Captain and all the crew set to work, 


5 2 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


with iron rakes and great hooks and lines, fishing for 
gold and silver at the bottom of the sea. Up came the 
treasure in abundance. Now they beheld a table of 
solid silver, once the property of an old Spanish grandee. 
Now they found a sacramental vessel, which had been 
destined as a gift to some Catholic church. Now they 
drew up a golden cup, fit for the king of Spain to drink 
his wine out of. Perhaps the bony hand of its former 
owner had been grasping the precious cup, and was 
drawn up along with it. Now their rakes or fishing 
lines were loaded with masses of silver bullion. There 
were also precious stones among the treasure, glittering 
and sparkling, so that it is a wonder how their radiance 
could have been concealed. 

There is something sad and terrible in the idea of 
snatching all this wealth from the devouring ocean, 
which had possessed it for such a length of years. It 
seems as if men had no right to make themselves rich 
with it. It ought to have been left with the skeletons 
of the ancient Spaniards, who had been drowned when 
the ship was wrecked, and whose bones were now 
scattered among the gold and silver. 

But Captain Phipps and his crew were troubled with 
no such thoughts as these. After a day or two they 
lighted on another part of the wreck, where they found 
a great many bags of silver dollars. But nobody could 
have guessed that these were money-bags. By remain¬ 
ing so long in the salt water, they had become covered 
over with a crust which had the appearance of stone, so 
that it was necessary to break them in pieces with 
hammers and axes. When this was done, a stream of 
silver dollars gushed out upon the deck of the vessel. 

The whole value of the recovered treasure, plate, 
bullion, precious stones, and all, was estimated at more 
than two millions of dollars. It was dangerous even to 
look at such a vast amount of wealth. A sea-captain, 
who had assisted Phipps in the enterprise, utterly lost 
his reason at the sight of it. He died two years after¬ 
wards, still raving about the treasures that lie at the 
bottom of the sea. It would have been better for this 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


53 

man, if he had left the skeletons of the shipwrecked 
Spaniards in quiet possession of their wealth. 

Captain Phipps and his men continued to fish up 
plate, bullion, and dollars, as plentifully as ever, till 
their provisions grew short. Then, as they could not 
feed upon gold and silver any more than old King 
Midas could, they found it necessary to go in search 
of better sustenance. Phipps resolved to return to 
England. He arrived there in 1687, and was received 
with great joy by the Duke of Albemarle and other 
English lords, who had fitted out the vessel. Well they 
might rejoice; for they took by far the greater part of 
the treasure to themselves. 

The Captain’s share, however, was enough to make 
him comfortable for the rest ’of his days. It also 
enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife, by build¬ 
ing a “ fair brick house,” in the Green Lane of Boston. 
The Duke of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phipps a magnificent 
gold cup, worth at least five thousand dollars. Before 
Captain Phipps left London, King James made him a 
knight; so that, instead of the obscure ship-carpenter 
who had formerly dwelt among them, the inhabitants of 
Boston welcomed him on his return as the rich and 
famous Sir William Phipps. 


CHAPTER XI 


“ QIR WILLIAM PHIPPS,” continued Grandfather, 
“ was too active and adventurous a man to sit still 
in the quiet enjoyment of his good fortune. In the 
year 1690, he went on a military expedition against 
the French colonies in America, conquered the whole 
province of Acadie, and returned to Boston with a great 
deal of plunder.” 

“Why, Grandfather, he was the greatest man that 
ever sat in the chair! ” cried Charley. 

“Ask Laurence what he thinks,” replied Grandfather, 
with a smile. “ Well, in the same year, Sir William took 
command of an expedition against Quebec, but did not 
succeed in capturing the city. In 1692, being then in 
London, King William the Third appointed him gov¬ 
ernor of Massachusetts. And now, my dear children, 
having followed Sir William Phipps through all his 
adventures and hardships, till we find him comfortably 
seated in Grandfather’s chair, we will here bid him 
farewell. May he be as happy in ruling a people, as he 
was while he tended sheep ! ” 

Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by the 
adventurous disposition of Sir William Phipps, was 
eager to know how he had acted, and what happened to 
him while he held the office of governor. But Grand¬ 
father had made up his mind to tell no more stories for 
the present. 

“ Possibly, one of these days, I may go on with the 
adventures of the chair,” said he. “But its history 
becomes very obscure just at this point; and I must 
search into some old books and manuscripts, before 
proceeding further. Besides, it is now a good time to 
pause in our narrative; because the new charter, which 
Sir William Phipps brought over from England, formed 
a very important epoch in the history of the province.” 

54 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


55 


“ Really, Grandfather,” observed Laurence, “ this 
seems to be the most remarkable chair in the world. 
Its history cannot be told without intertwining it with 
the lives of distinguished men, and the great events 
that have befallen the country.” 

“True, Laurence,” replied Grandfather, smiling, “we 
must write a book with some such title as this, — Me¬ 
moirs of my own Times, by Grandfather’s Chair.” 

“ That would be beautiful! ” exclaimed Laurence, 
clapping his hands. 

“ But, after all,” continued Grandfather, “ any other 
old chair, if it possessed memory, and a hand to write 
its recollections, could record stranger stories than any 
that I have told you. From generation to generation, 
a chair sits familiarly in the midst of human interests, 
and is witness to the most secret and confidential inter¬ 
course that mortal man can hold with his fellow. The 
human heart may best be read in the fireside chair. 
And as to external events, Grief and Joy keep a con¬ 
tinual vicissitude around it and within it. Now we see 
the glad face and glowing form of Joy, sitting merrily 
in the old chair, and throwing a warm firelight radiance 
over all the household. Now, while we thought not of 
it, the dark-clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the 
place of Joy, but not to retain it long. The imagination 
can hardly grasp so wide a subject, as is embraced in 
the experience of a family chair.” 

“It makes my breath flutter, — my heart thrill, — to 
think of it,” said Laurence. “Yes; a family chair 
must have a deeper history than a Chair of State.” 

“ Oh, yes! ” cried Clara, expressing a woman’s feeling 
on the point in question, “ the history of a country is not 
nearly so interesting as that of a single family would be.” 

“ But the history of a country is more easily told,” 
said Grandfather. “ So, if we proceed with our narra¬ 
tive of the chair, I shall still confine myself to its con¬ 
nection with public events.” 

Good old Grandfather now rose and quitted the room, 
while the children remained gazing at the chair. Lau¬ 
rence, so vivid was his conception of past times, would 


56 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


hardly have deemed it strange, if its former occupants, 
one after another, had resumed the seat which they had 
each left vacant, such a dim length of years ago. 

First, the gentle and lovely Lady Arbella would have 
been seen in the old chair, almost sinking out of its 
arms, for very weakness; then Roger Williams, in his 
cloak and band, earnest, energetic, and benevolent; then 
the figure of Anne Hutchinson, with the like gesture 
as when she presided at the assemblages of women; 
then the dark, intellectual face of Vane, “young in 
years, but in sage counsel old.” Next would have ap¬ 
peared the successive governors, Winthrop, Dudley, 
Bellingham, and Endicott, who sat in the chair, while 
it was a Chair of State. Then its ample seat would 
have been pressed by the comfortable, rotund corpora¬ 
tion of the honest mint-master. Then the half-frenzied 
shape of Mary Dyer, the persecuted Quaker woman, 
clad in sackcloth and ashes, would have rested in it for 
a moment. Then the holy apostolic form of Eliot 
would have sanctified it. Then would have arisen, like 
the shade of departed Puritanism, the venerable dig¬ 
nity of the white-bearded Governor Bradstreet. Lastly, 
on the gorgeous crimson cushion of Grandfather’s chair, 
would have shown the purple and golden magnificence 
of Sir William Phipps. 

But all these, with the other historic personages, in 
the midst of whom the chair had so often stood, had 
passed, both in substance and shadow, from the scene 
of ages. Yet here stood the chair, with the old Lincoln 
coat of arms, and the oaken flowers and foliage, and 
the fierce lion’s head at the summit, the whole, appar¬ 
ently, in as perfect preservation as when it had first 
been placed in the Earl of Lincoln’s hall. And what 
vast changes of society and of nations had been wrought 
by sudden convulsions or by slow degrees, since that 
era! 

“This chair had stood firm when the thrones of kings 
were overturned! ” thought Laurence. “ Its oaken 
frame has proved stronger than many frames of gov¬ 
ernment ! ” 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


57 


More the thoughtful and imaginative boy might have 
mused; but now a large yellow cat, a great favorite 
with all the children, leaped in at the open window. 
Perceiving that Grandfather’s chair was empty, and 
having often before experienced its comforts, puss laid 
herself quietly down upon the cushion. Laurence, 
Clara, Charley, and little Alice, all laughed at the idea 
of such a successor to the worthies of old times. 

“ Pussy,” said little Alice, putting out her hand, into 
which the cat laid a velvet paw, “ you look very wise. 
Do tell us a story about Grandfather’s Chair ! ” 


PART II 


CHAPTER I 

Grandfather, dear Grandfather,” cried little 
Alice, “pray tell us some more stories about 
your chair! ” 

How long a time had fled, since the children had 
felt any curiosity to hear the sequel of this venerable 
chair’s adventures! Summer was now past and gone, 
and the better part of Autumn likewise. Dreary, chill 
November was howling, out of doors, and vexing the 
atmosphere with sudden showers of wintry rain, or 
sometimes with gusts of snow, that rattled like small 
pebbles against the windows. 

When the weather began to grow cool, Grandfather’s 
chair had been removed from the summer parlor into a 
smaller and snugger room. It now stood by the side of 
a bright blazing wood-fire. Grandfather loved a wood- 
fire, far better than a grate of glowing anthracite, or 
than the dull heat of an invisible furnace, which seems 
to think that it has done its duty in merely warming 
the house. But the wood-fire is a kindly, cheerful, 
sociable spirit, sympathizing with mankind, and knowing 
that to create warmth is but one of the good offices 
which are expected from it. Therefore it dances on the 
hearth, and laughs broadly through the room, and plays 
a thousand antics, and throws a joyous glow over all 
the faces that encircle it. 

In the twilight of the evening, the fire grew brighter 
and more cheerful. And thus, perhaps, there was 
something in Grandfather’s heart, that cheered him 
most with its warmth and comfort in the gathering 
twilight of old age. He had been gazing at the red 
embers* as intently as if his past life were all pictured 

58 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


59 

there, or as if it were a prospect of the future world, 
when little Alice’s voice aroused him. 

“ Dear Grandfather,” repeated the little girl, more 
earnestly, “ do talk to us again about your chair.” 

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice, 
had been attracted to other objects, for two or three 
months past. They had sported in the gladsome sun¬ 
shine of the present, and so had forgotten the shadowy 
region of the past, in the midst of which stood Grand¬ 
father's chair. But now, in the autumnal twilight, illu¬ 
minated by the flickering blaze of the wood-fire, they 
looked at the old chair, and thought that it had never 
before worn such an interesting aspect. There it stood, 
in the venerable majesty of more than two hundred 
years. The light from the hearth quivered upon the 
flowers and foliage, that were wrought into its open 
back; and the lion’s head at the summit seemed almost 
to move its jaws and shake its mane. 

“ Does little Alice speak for all of you ? ” asked 
Grandfather. “ Do you wish me to go on with the 
adventures of the chair ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, Grandfather ! ” cried Clara. “ The 
dear old chair! How strange that we should have 
forgotten it so long! ” 

“ Oh, pray begin, Grandfather,” said Laurence ; “ for 
I think, when we talk about old times, it should be in 
the early evening before the candles are lighted. The 
shapes of the famous persons, who once sat in the 
chair, will be more apt to come back, and be seen 
among us, in this glimmer and pleasant gloom, than 
they would in the vulgar daylight. And, besides, we 
can make pictures of all that you tell us, among the 
glowing embers and white ashes.” 

Our friend Charley, too, thought the evening the 
best time to hear Grandfather's stories, because he 
could not then be playing out of doors. So, finding 
his young auditors unanimous in their petition, the good 
old gentleman took up the narrative of the historic 
chair at the point where he had dropt it. 


CHAPTER II 


OU recollect, my dear children,” said Grandfather, 



1 “that we took leave of the chair in 1692, while 
it was occupied by Sir William Phipps. This fortunate 
treasure-seeker, you will remember, had come over from 
England, with King William’s commission to be Gov¬ 
ernor of Massachusetts. Within the limits of this prov¬ 
ince were now included the old colony of Plymouth, 
and the territories of Maine and Nova Scotia. Sir 
William Phipps had likewise brought a new charter 
from the king, which served instead of a constitution, 
and set forth the method in which the province was to 
be governed.” 

“ Did the new charter allow the people all their 
former liberties ? ” inquired Laurence. 

“ No,” replied Grandfather. “ Under the first charter, 
the people had been the source of all power. Winthrop, 
Endicott, Bradstreet, and the rest of them, had been 
governors by the choice of the people, without any in¬ 
terference of the king. But henceforth the governor 
was to hold his station solely by the king’s appointment, 
and during his pleasure; and the same was the case 
with the lieutenant-governor, and some other high 
officers. The people, however, were still allowed to 
choose representatives; and the governor’s council was 
chosen by the general court.” 

“Would the inhabitants have elected Sir William 
Phipps,” asked Laurence, “if the choice of governor 
had been left to them ? ” 

“He might probably have been a successful candi¬ 
date,” answered Grandfather; “ for his adventures and 
military enterprises had gained him a sort of renown, 
which always goes a great way with the people. And 
he had many popular characteristics, being a kind, 
warm-hearted man, not ashamed of his low origin, nor 


60 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


61 

haughty in his present elevation. Soon after his arrival, 
he proved that he did not blush to recognize his former 
associates.” 

“ How was that ? ” inquired Charley. 

“He made a grand festival at his new brick house,” 
said Grandfather, “and invited all the ship-carpenters 
of Boston to be his guests. At the head of the table, 
in our great chair, sat Sir William Phipps himself, 
treating these hard-handed men as his brethren, crack¬ 
ing jokes with them, and talking familiarly about old 
times. I know not whether he wore his embroidered 
dress, but I rather choose to imagine that he had on a 
suit of rough clothes, such as he used to labor in while 
he was Phipps the ship-carpenter.” 

“ An aristocrat need not be ashamed of the trade,” 
observed Laurence; “ for the Czar Peter the Great once 
served an apprenticeship to it.” 

“ Did Sir William Phipps make as good a governor 
as he was a ship-carpenter ? ” asked Charley. 

“ History says but little about his merits as a ship- 
carpenter,” answered Grandfather; “but, as a governor, 
a great deal of fault was found with him. Almost as 
soon as he assumed the government, he became engaged 
in a very frightful business, which might have perplexed 
a wiser and better-cultivated head than his. This was 
the witchcraft delusion.” 

And here Grandfather gave his auditors such details 
of this melancholy affair as he thought it fit for them 
to know. They shuddered to hear that a frenzy, which 
led to the death of many innocent persons, had origi¬ 
nated in the wicked arts of a few children. They 
belonged to the Rev. Mr. Parris, minister of Salem. 
These children complained of being pinched, and 
pricked with pins, and otherwise tormented by the 
shapes of men and women, who were supposed to 
have power to haunt them invisibly, both in darkness 
and daylight. Often in the midst of their family and 
friends, the children would pretend to be seized with 
strange convulsions, and would cry out that the witches 
were afflicting them. 


62 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


These stories spread abroad, and caused great tumult 
and alarm. From the foundation of New England, it 
had been the custom of the inhabitants, in all matters 
of doubt and difficulty, to look to their ministers for 
counsel. So they did now; but, unfortunately, the 
ministers and wise men were more deluded than the 
illiterate people. Cotton Mather, a very learned and 
eminent clergyman, believed that the whole country 
was full of witches and wizards, who had given up 
their hopes of heaven, and signed a covenant with the 
Evil One. 

Nobody could be certain that his nearest neighbor, 
or most intimate friend, was not guilty of this imagi¬ 
nary crime. The number of those who pretended to 
be afflicted by witchcraft, grew daily more numerous; 
and they bore testimony against many of the best and 
worthiest people. A minister, named George Bur¬ 
roughs, was among the accused. In the months of 
August and September, 1692, he and nineteen other 
innocent men and women were put to death. The 
place of execution was a high hill, on the outskirts of 
Salem; so that many of the sufferers, as they stood 
beneath the gallows, could discern their own habitations 
in the town. 

The martyrdom of these guiltless persons seemed 
only to increase the madness. The afflicted now grew 
bolder in their accusations. Many people of rank and 
wealth were either thrown into prison, or compelled to 
flee for their lives. Among these were two sons of old 
Simon Bradstreet, the last of the Puritan governors. 
Mr. Willard, a pious minister of Boston, was cried out 
upon as a wizard, in open court. Mrs. Hale, the wife 
of the minister of Beverly, was likewise accused. Philip 
English, a rich merchant of Salem, found it necessary 
to take flight, leaving his property and business in con¬ 
fusion. But a short time afterwards, the Salem people 
were glad to invite him back. 

“ The boldest thing that the accusers did,” continued 
Grandfather, “was to cry out against the governor’s 
own beloved wife. Yes; the lady of Sir William 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


6 3 


Phipps was accused of being a witch, and of flying 
through the air to attend witch meetings. When the 
governor heard this, he probably trembled, so that our 
great chair shook beneath him.” 

“ Dear Grandfather,” cried little Alice, clinging closer 
to his knee, “ is it true that witches ever come in the 
night-time to frighten little children ? ” 

“ No, no, dear little Alice,” replied Grandfather. 
“ Even if there were any witches, they would flee away 
from the presence of a pure-hearted child. But there 
are none; and our forefathers soon became convinced 
that they had been led into a terrible delusion. All 
the prisoners on account of witchcraft were set free. 
But the innocent dead could not be restored to life; 
and the hill where they were executed will always re¬ 
mind people of the saddest and most humiliating pas¬ 
sage in our history.” 

Grandfather then said, that the next remarkable 
event, while Sir William Phipps remained in the chair, 
was the arrival at Boston of an English fleet, in 1693. 
It brought an army, which was intended for the con¬ 
quest of Canada. But a malignant disease, more fatal 
than the small-pox, broke out among the soldiers and 
sailors, and destroyed the greater part of them. The 
infection spread into the town of Boston, and made 
much havoc there. This dreadful sickness caused the 
governor, and Sir Francis Wheeler, who was com¬ 
mander of the British forces, to give up all thoughts 
of attacking Canada. 

“ Soon after this,” said Grandfather, “ Sir William 
Phipps quarrelled with the captain of an English frig¬ 
ate, and also with the Collector of Boston. Being a man 
of violent temper, he gave each of them a sound beating 
with his cane.” 

“ He was a bold fellow,” observed Charley, who was 
himself somewhat addicted to a similar mode of settling 
disputes. 

“More bold than wise,” replied Grandfather; “for 
complaints were carried to the king, and Sir William 
Phipps was summoned to England, to make the best 


6 4 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


answer he could. Accordingly he went to London, 
where, in 1695, he was seized with a malignant fever, of 
which he died. Had he lived longer, he would probably 
have gone again in search of sunken treasure. He had 
heard of a Spanish ship, which was cast away in 1502, 
during the lifetime of Columbus. Bovadilla, Roldan, 
and many other Spaniards, were lost in her, together 
with the immense wealth of which they had robbed the 
South American kings.” 

“Why, Grandfather,” exclaimed Laurence, “what 
magnificent ideas the governor had! Only think of 
recovering all that old treasure, which had lain almost 
two centuries under the sea! Methinks Sir William 
Phipps ought to have been buried in the ocean, when he 
died; so that he might have gone down among the 
sunken ships, and cargoes of treasure, which he was 
always dreaming about in his lifetime.” 

“ He was buried in one of the crowded cemeteries of 
London,” said Grandfather. “ As he left no children, 
his estate was inherited by his nephew, from whom is 
descended the present Marquis of Normanby. The noble 
Marquis is not aware, perhaps, that the prosperity of his 
family originated in the successful enterprise of a New 
England ship-carpenter.” 


CHAPTER III 


“AT the death of Sir William Phipps,” proceeded 
Grandfather, “ our chair was bequeathed to Mr. 
Ezekiel Cheever, a famous school-master in Boston. 
This old gentleman came from London in 1637, and 
had been teaching school ever since; so that there were 
now aged men, grandfathers like myself, to whom Mas¬ 
ter Cheever had taught their alphabet. He was a person 
of venerable aspect, and wore a long white beard.” 

“ Was the chair placed in his school ? ” asked Charley. 

“Yes, in his school,” answered Grandfather; “and 
we may safely say that it had never before been regarded 
with such awful reverence — no, not even when the old 
governors of Massachusetts sat in it. Even you, Charley, 
my boy, would have felt some respect for the chair, if 
you had seen it occupied by this famous school-master.” 

And here Grandfather endeavored to give his auditors 
an idea how matters were managed in schools above a 
hundred years ago. As this will probably be an inter¬ 
esting subject to our readers, we shall make a separate 
sketch of it, and call it 

The Old Fashioned School 

Now imagine yourselves, my children, in Master Eze¬ 
kiel Cheever’s school-room. It is a large, dingy room, 
with a sanded floor, and is lighted by windows that turn 
on hinges, and have little diamond-shaped panes of glass. 
The scholars sit on long benches, with desks before them. 
At one end of the room is a great fire-place, so very spa¬ 
cious, that there is room enough for three or four boys 
to stand in each of the chimney-corners. This was the 
good old fashion of fire-places, when there was wood 
enough in the forests to keep people warm, without 
their digging into the bowels of the earth for coal. 

65 


66 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


It is a winter’s day when we take our peep into the 
school-room. See what great logs of wood have been 
rolled into the fire-place, and what a broad, bright blaze 
goes leaping up the chimney ! And every few moments, 
a vast cloud of smoke is puffed into the room, which 
sails slowly over the heads of the scholars, until it grad¬ 
ually settles upon the walls and ceiling. They are black¬ 
ened with the smoke of many years already. 

Next, look at our old historic chair! It is placed, you 
perceive, in the most comfortable part of the room, where 
the generous glow of the fire is sufficiently felt without 
being too intensely hot. How stately the old chair looks, 
as if it remembered its many famous occupants, but yet 
were conscious that a greater man is sitting in it now! 
Do you see the venerable school-master, severe in aspect, 
with a black skull-cap on his head, like an ancient Puri¬ 
tan, and the snow of his white beard drifting down to 
his very girdle ? What boy would dare to play, or whis¬ 
per, or even glance aside from his book, while Master 
Cheever is on the lookout, behind his spectacles ! For 
such offenders, if any such there be, a rod of birch is 
hanging over the fire-place, and a heavy ferule lies on 
the master’s desk. 

And now school is begun. What a murmur of multi¬ 
tudinous tongues, like the whispering leaves of a wind- 
stirred oak, as the scholars con over their various tasks! 
Buz, buz, buz ! Amid just such a murmur has Master 
Cheever spent above sixty years; and long habit has 
made it as pleasant to him as the hum of a bee-hive, 
when the insects are busy in the sunshine. 

Now a class in Latin is called to recite. Forth steps 
a row of queer-looking little fellows, wearing square- 
skirted coats, and smallclothes, with buttons at the knee. 
They look like so many grandfathers in their second 
childhood. These lads are to be sent to Cambridge, 
and educated for the learned professions. Old Master 
Cheever has lived so long, and seen so many genera¬ 
tions of school-boys grow up to be men, that now he 
can almost prophesy what sort of a man each boy will 
be. One urchin shall hereafter be a doctor, and ad- 



“The On* Chair is now a Judgment-seat.” 























GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


67 


minister pills and potions, and stalk gravely through 
life, perfumed with assafoetida. Another shall wrangle 
at the bar, and fight his way to wealth and honors, and 
in his declining age, shall be a worshipful member of 
his Majesty’s council. A third — and he is the master’s 
favorite — shall be a worthy successor to the old Puritan 
ministers, now in their graves; he shall preach with 
great unction and effect, and leave volumes of sermons, 
in print and manuscript, for the benefit of future gen¬ 
erations. 

But, as they are merely school-boys now, their busi¬ 
ness is to construe Virgil. Poor Virgil, whose verses, 
which he took so much pains to polish, have been mis- 
scanned, mis-parsed, and mis-interpreted, by so many 
generations of idle school-boys! There, sit down, ye 
Latinists. Two or three of you, I fear, are doomed to 
feel the master’s ferule. 

Next comes a class in Arithmetic. These boys are 
to be the merchants, shop-keepers, and mechanics, of a 
future period. Hitherto, they have traded only in 
marbles and apples. Hereafter, some will send vessels 
to England for broadcloths and all sorts of manufactured 
wares, and to the West Indies for sugar, and rum, and 
coffee. Others will stand behind counters, and measure 
tape, and ribbon, and cambric, by the yard. Others will 
upheave the blacksmith’s hammer, or drive the plane 
over the carpenter’s bench, or take the lapstone and the 
awl, and learn the trade of shoe-making. Many will 
follow the sea, and become bold, rough sea-captains. 

This class of boys, in short, must supply the world 
with those active, skilful hands, and clear, sagacious 
heads, without which the affairs of life would be thrown 
into confusion, by the theories of studious and visionary 
men. Wherefore, teach them their multiplication table, 
good Master Cheever, and whip them well, when they 
deserve it; for much of the country’s welfare depends 
on these boys! 

But, alas! while we have been thinking of other mat¬ 
ters, Master Cheever’s watchful eye has caught two boys 
at play. Now we shall see awful times ! The two male- 


68 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


factors are summoned before the master’s chair, wherein 
he sits, with the terror of a judge upon his brow. Our 
old chair is now a judgment-seat. Ah, Master Cheever 
has taken down that terrible birch-rod! Short is the 
trial — the sentence quickly passed — and now the judge 
prepares to execute it in person. Thwack ! thwack! 
thwack! In these good old times, a school-master’s 
blows were well laid on. 

See! the birch-rod has lost several of its twigs, and 
will hardly serve for another execution. Mercy on us, 
what a bellowing the urchins make! My ears are 
almost deafened, though the clamor comes through the 
far length of a hundred and fifty years. There, go to 
your seats, poor boys! and do not cry, sweet little 
Alice! for they have ceased to feel the pain a long 
time since. 

And thus the forenoon passes away. Now it is 
twelve o’clock. The master looks at his great silver 
watch, and then, with tiresome deliberation, puts the 
ferule into his desk. The little multitude await the 
word of dismissal, with almost irrepressible impatience. 

“You are dismissed,” says Master Cheever. 

The boys retire, treading softly until they have passed 
the threshold ; but, fairly out of the school-room, lo, what 
a joyous shout!—what a scampering and trampling of 
feet! — what a sense of recovered freedom, expressed 
in the merry uproar of all their voices ! What care they 
for the ferule and birch-rod now ? Were boys created 
merely to study Latin and Arithmetic ? No ; the better 
purposes of their being are to sport, to leap, to run, to 
shout, to slide upon the ice, to snow-ball! 

Happy boys! Enjoy your play-time now, and come 
again to study, and to feel the birch-rod and the ferule, 
to-morrow; not till to-morrow, for to-day is Thursday- 
lecture; and ever since the settlement of Massachu¬ 
setts, there has been no school on Thursday afternoons. 
Therefore, sport, boys, while you may; for the morrow 
cometh, with the birch-rod and the ferule; and after 
that, another morrow, with troubles of its own. 

Now the master has set everything to rights, and is 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


69 


ready to go home to dinner. Yet he goes reluctantly. 
The old man has spent so much of his life in the smoky, 
noisy, buzzing school-room, that, when he has a holiday, 
he feels as if his place were lost, and himself a stranger 
in the world. But, forth he goes; and there stands our 
old chair, vacant and solitary, till good Master Cheever 
resumes his seat in it to-morrow morning. 

“ Grandfather,” said Charley, “ I wonder whether the 
boys did not use to upset the old chair, when the school¬ 
master was out.” 

“There is a tradition,” replied Grandfather, “that one 
of its arms was dislocated, in some such manner. But I 
cannot believe that any school-boy would behave so 
naughtily.” 

As it was now later than little Alice’s usual bed-time, 
Grandfather broke off his narrative, promising to talk 
more about Master Cheever and his scholars, some other 
evening. 


CHAPTER IV 


A CCORDINGLY, the next evening, Grandfather 
resumed the history of his beloved chair. 
“Master Ezekiel Cheever,” said he, “died in 1707, 
after having taught school about seventy years. It 
would require a pretty good scholar in arithmetic to tell 
how many stripes he had inflicted, and how many birch- 
rods he had worn out, during all that time, in his fatherly 
tenderness for his pupils. Almost all the great men of 
that period, and for many years back, had been whipt 
into eminence by Master Cheever. Moreover, he had 
written a Latin Accidence, which was used in schools 
more than half a century after his death; so that the 
good old man, even in his grave, was still the cause of 
trouble and stripes to idle school-boys.” 

Grandfather proceeded to say, that, when Master 
Cheever died, he bequeathed the chair to the most 
learned man that was educated at his school, or that 
had ever been born in America. This was the re¬ 
nowned Cotton Mather, minister of the Old North 
Church in Boston. 

“ And author of the ‘ Magnalia,’ Grandfather, which 
we sometimes see you reading,” said Laurence. 

“Yes, Laurence,” replied Grandfather. “The ‘Mag¬ 
nalia ’ is a strange, pedantic history, in which true events 
and real personages move before the reader, with the 
dreamy aspect which they wore in Cotton Mather’s singu¬ 
lar mind. This huge volume, however, was written and 
published before our chair came into his possession. 
But, as he was the author of more books than there are 
days in the year, we may conclude that he wrote a great 
deal, while sitting in this chair.” 

“ I am tired of these school-masters and learned men,” 
said Charley. “ I wish some stirring man, that knew 

70 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


7i 

how to do something in the world, like Sir William 
Phipps, would sit in the chair.” 

“Such men seldom have leisure to sit quietly in 
a chair,” said Grandfather. “We must make the best 
of such people as we have.” 

As Cotton Mather was a very distinguished man, 
Grandfather took some pains to give the children a lively 
conception of his character. Over the door of his library 
were painted these words — be short —as a warning to 
visitors that they must not do the world so much harm, 
as needlessly to interrupt this great man’s wonderful 
labors. On entering the room you would probably be¬ 
hold it crowded, and piled, and heaped with books. 
There were huge, ponderous folios and quartos, and 
little duodecimos, in English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, 
Chaldaic, and all other languages, that either originated 
at the confusion of Babel, or have since come into use. 

All these books, no doubt, were tossed about in con¬ 
fusion, thus forming a visible emblem of the manner in 
which their contents were crowded into Cotton Mather’s 
brain. And in the middle of the room stood a table, on 
which, besides printed volumes, were strown manuscript 
sermons, historical tracts, and political pamphlets, all 
written in such a queer, blind, crabbed, fantastical hand, 
that a writing-master would have gone raving mad at 
the sight of them. By this table stood Grandfather’s 
chair, which seemed already to have contracted an air 
of deep erudition, as if its cushion were stuffed with 
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and other hard matters. 

In this chair, from one year’s end to another, sat that 
prodigious bookworm, Cotton Mather, sometimes devour¬ 
ing a great book, and sometimes scribbling one as big. 
In Grandfather’s younger days, there used to be a wax 
figure of him in one of the Boston museums, represent¬ 
ing a solemn, dark-visaged person, in a minister’s black 
gown, and with a black-letter volume before him. 

“ It is difficult, my children,” observed Grandfather, 
“to make you understand such a character as Cotton 
Mather’s, in whom there was so much good, and yet so 
many failings and frailties. Undoubtedly, he was a pious 


72 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


man. Often he kept fasts; and once, for three whole 
days, he allowed himself not a morsel of food, but spent 
the time in prayer and religious meditation. Many 
a livelong night did he watch and pray. These fasts 
and vigils made him meagre and haggard, and probably 
caused him to appear as if he hardly belonged to the 
world.” 

“Was not the witchcraft delusion partly caused by 
Cotton Mather?” inquired Laurence. 

“ He was the chief agent of the mischief,” answered 
Grandfather; “but we will not suppose that he acted 
otherwise than conscientiously. He believed that there 
were evil spirits all about the world. Doubtless he im¬ 
agined that they were hidden in the corners and crevices 
of his library, and that they peeped out from among the 
leaves of many of his books, as he turned them over, 
at midnight. He supposed that these unlovely demons 
were everywhere, in the sunshine as well as in the dark¬ 
ness, and that they were hidden in men’s hearts, and 
stole into their most secret thoughts.” 

Here Grandfather was interrupted by little Alice, who 
hid her face in his lap, and murmured a wish that he 
would not talk any more about Cotton Mather and the 
evil spirits. Grandfather kissed her, and told her that 
angels were the only spirits whom she had anything to 
do with. He then spoke of the public affairs of the 
period. 

A new war between France and England had broken 
out in 1702, and had been raging ever since. In the 
course of it, New England suffered much injury from 
the French and Indians, who often came through the 
woods from Canada, and assaulted the frontier towns. 
Villages were sometimes burnt, and the inhabitants 
slaughtered, within a day’s ride of Boston. The peo¬ 
ple of New England had a bitter hatred against the 
French, not only for the mischief which they did with 
their own hands, but because they incited the Indians 
to hostility. 

The New Englanders knew that they could never 
dwell in security, until the provinces of France should 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


73 


be subdued and brought under the English government. 
They frequently, in time of war, undertook military ex¬ 
peditions against Acadia and Canada, and sometimes 
besieged the fortresses, by which those territories were 
defended. But the most earnest wish of their hearts 
was to take Quebec, and so get possession of the whole 
province of Canada. Sir William Phipps had once 
attempted it, but without success. 

Fleets and soldiers were often sent from England, to 
assist the colonists in their warlike undertakings. In 
1710, Port Royal, a fortress of Acadia, was taken by 
the English. The next year, in the month of June, a 
fleet, commanded by Admiral Sir Hovenden Walker, 
arrived in Boston harbor. On board of this fleet was the 
English General Hill, with seven regiments of soldiers, 
who had been fighting under the Duke of Marlborough, 
in Flanders. The government of Massachusetts was 
called upon to find provisions for the army and fleet, 
and to raise more men to assist in taking Canada. 

What with recruiting and drilling of soldiers, there 
was now nothing but warlike bustle in the streets of 
Boston. The drum and fife, the rattle of arms, and 
the shouts of boys, were heard from morning till night. 
In about a month, the fleet set sail, carrying four regi¬ 
ments from New England and New York, besides the 
English soldiers. The whole army amounted to at least 
seven thousand men. They steered for the mouth of 
the river St. Lawrence. 

“ Cotton Mather prayed most fervently for their suc¬ 
cess,” continued Grandfather, “ both in his pulpit, and 
when he kneeled down in the solitude of his library, rest¬ 
ing his face on our old chair. But Providence ordered 
the result otherwise. In a few weeks, tidings were re¬ 
ceived that eight or nine of the vessels had been wrecked 
in the St. Lawrence, and that above a thousand drowned 
soldiers had been washed ashore, on the banks of that 
mighty river. After this misfortune, Sir Hovenden 
Walker set sail for England; and many pious people 
began to think it a sin, even to wish for the conquest 
of Canada.” 


74 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


“ I would never give it up so,” cried Charley. 

“Nor did they, as we shall see,” replied Grandfather. 
“ However, no more attempts were made during this war, 
which came to a close in 1713. The people of New Eng¬ 
land were probably glad of some repose, for their young 
men had been made soldiers, till many of them were fit 
for nothing else. And those who remained at home had 
been heavily taxed to pay for the arms, ammunition, for¬ 
tifications, and all the other endless expenses of a war. 
There was great need of the prayers of Cotton Mather, 
and of all pious men, not only on account of the suffer¬ 
ings of the people, but because the old moral and reli¬ 
gious character of New England was in danger of being 
utterly lost.” 

“ How glorious it would have been,” remarked Lau¬ 
rence, “if our forefathers could have kept the country 
unspotted with blood.” 

“ Yes,” said Grandfather ; “but there was a stern war¬ 
like spirit in them, from the beginning. They seem 
never to have thought of questioning either the morality 
or piety of war.” 

The next event, which Grandfather spoke of, was one 
that Cotton Mather, as well as most of the other inhabit¬ 
ants of New England, heartily rejoiced at. This was 
the accession of the Elector of Hanover to the throne 
of England, in 1714, on the death of Queen Anne. 
Hitherto, the people had been in continual dread that 
the male line of the Stuarts, who were descended from 
the beheaded King Charles and the banished King James, 
would be restored to the throne. In that case, as the 
Stuart family were Roman Catholics, it was supposed 
that they would attempt to establish their own religion 
throughout the British dominions. But the Elector of 
Hanover, and all his race, were Protestants; so that 
now the descendants of the old Puritans were relieved 
from many fears and disquietudes. 

“ The importance of this event,” observed Grand¬ 
father, “was a thousand times greater than that of a 
Presidential Election, in our own days. If the people 
dislike their president, they may get rid of him in four 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


75 


years; whereas, a dynasty of kings may wear the crown 
for an unlimited period.” 

The German elector was proclaimed king from the 
balcony of the town-house, in Boston, by the title of 
George the First, while the trumpets sounded, and the 
people cried Amen. That night the town was illumi¬ 
nated ; and Cotton Mather threw aside book and pen, 
and left Grandfather’s chair vacant, while he walked 
hither and thither to witness the rejoicings. 


CHAPTER V 


“ /^OTTON MATHER,” continued Grandfather, 
“ was a bitter enemy to Governor Dudley ; and 
nobody exulted more than he, when that crafty poli¬ 
tician was removed from the government, and succeeded 
by Colonel Shute. This took place in 1716. The new 
governor had been an officer in the renowned Duke of 
Marlborough’s army, and had fought in some of the 
great battles in Flanders.” 

“ Now I hope,” said Charley, “ we shall hear of his 
doing great things.” 

“ I am afraid you will be disappointed, Charley,” 
answered Grandfather. “ It is true, that Colonel Shute 
had probably never led so unquiet a life while fighting 
the French, as he did now, while governing this prov¬ 
ince of Massachusetts Bay. But his troubles con¬ 
sisted almost entirely of dissensions with the legislature. 
The king had ordered him to lay claim to a fixed sal¬ 
ary ; but the representatives of the people insisted upon 
paying him only such sums, from year to year, as they 
saw fit.” 

Grandfather here explained some of the circum¬ 
stances, that made the situation of a colonial governor 
so difficult and irksome. There was not the same feel¬ 
ing towards the chief magistrate, now, that had existed 
while he was chosen by the free suffrages of the peo¬ 
ple. It was felt, that as the king appointed the gov¬ 
ernor, and as he held his office during the king’s pleasure, 
it would be his great object to please the king. But 
the people thought, that a governor ought to have 
nothing in view, but the best interests of those whom 
he governed. 

“ The governor,” remarked Grandfather, “ had two 
masters to serve — the king, who appointed him, and 
the people, on whom he depended for his pay. Few 

76 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


77 


men, in this position, would have ingenuity enough to 
satisfy either party. Colonel Shute, though a good- 
natured, well-meaning man, succeeded so ill with the 
people, that in 1722, he suddenly went away to Eng¬ 
land, and made complaint to King George. In the 
mean time, Lieutenant-Governor Dummer directed the 
affairs of the province, and carried on a long and 
bloody war with the Indians.” 

“ But where was our chair, all this time ? ” asked 
Clara. 

“ It still remained in Cotton Mather’s library,” re¬ 
plied Grandfather ; “ and I must not omit to tell you an 
incident, which is very much to the honor of this cele¬ 
brated man. It is the more proper, too, that you should 
hear it, because it will show you what a terrible calam¬ 
ity the small-pox was to our forefathers. The history 
of the province, (and, of course, the history of our chair,) 
would be incomplete, without particular mention of it.” 

Accordingly, Grandfather told the children a story, 
to which, for want of a better title, we shall give that of 

The Rejected Blessing 

One day, in 1721, Doctor Cotton Mather sat in his 
library, reading a book that had been published by the 
Royal Society of London. But, every few moments, he 
laid the book upon the table, and leaned back in Grand¬ 
father’s chair, with an aspect of deep care and disquie¬ 
tude. There were certain things which troubled him 
exceedingly, so that he could hardly fix his thoughts 
upon what he read. 

It was now a gloomy time in Boston. That terrible 
disease, the small-pox, had recently made its appear¬ 
ance in the town. Ever since the first settlement of 
the country, this awful pestilence had come, at inter¬ 
vals, and swept away multitudes of the inhabitants. 
Whenever it commenced its ravages, nothing seemed 
to stay its progress, until there were no more victims 
for it to seize upon. Oftentimes, hundreds of people, 
at once, lay groaning with its agony ; and when it 


78 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


departed, its deep footsteps were always to be traced in 
many graves. 

The people never felt secure from this calamity. 
Sometimes, perhaps, it was brought into the country by 
a poor sailor, who had caught the infection in foreign 
parts, and came hither to die, and to be the cause of 
many deaths. Sometimes, no doubt, it followed in the 
train of the pompous governors, when they came over 
from England. Sometimes, the disease lay hidden in 
the cargoes of ships, among silks and brocades, and 
other costly merchandise, which was imported for the 
rich people to wear. And, sometimes, it started up, 
seemingly of its own accord ; and nobody could tell 
whence it came. The physician, being called to attend 
the sick person, would look at him, and say, — “ It is 
the small-pox! let the patient be carried to the 
hospital.” 

And now, this dreadful sickness had shown itself 
again in Boston. Cotton Mather was greatly afflicted, 
for the sake of the whole province. He had children, 
too, who were exposed to the danger. At that very 
moment, he heard the voice of his youngest son, for 
Whom his heart was moved with apprehension. 

“ Alas ! I fear for that poor child,” said Cotton Mather 
to himself. “What shall I do for my son Samuel?” 

Again, he attempted to drive away these thoughts, 
by taking up the book which he had been reading. And 
now, all of a sudden, his attention became fixed. The 
book contained a printed letter that an Italian physician 
had written upon the very subject, about which Cotton 
Mather was so anxiously meditating. He ran his eye 
eagerly over the pages; and, behold! a method was 
disclosed to him, by which the small-pox might be robbed 
of its worst terrors. Such a method was known in 
Greece. The physicians of Turkey, too, those long- 
bearded Eastern sages, had been acquainted with it for 
many years. The negroes of Africa, ignorant as they 
were, had likewise practised it, and thus had shown 
themselves wiser than the white men. 

“ Of a truth,” ejaculated Cotton Mather, clasping his 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


79 


hands, and looking up to Heaven, “ it was a merciful 
Providence that brought this book under mine eye ! I 
will procure a consultation of physicians, and will see 
whether this wondrous Inoculation may not stay the 
progress of the Destroyer/’ 

So he arose from Grandfather’s chair, and went out 
of the library. Near the door he met his son Samuel, 
who seemed downcast and out of spirits. The boy had 
heard, probably, that some of his playmates were taken 
ill with the small-pox. But, as his father looked cheer¬ 
fully at him, Samuel took courage, trusting that either 
the wisdom of so learned a minister would find some 
remedy for the danger, or else that his prayers would 
secure protection from on high. 

Meanwhile, Cotton Mather took his staff and three- 
cornered hat, and walked about the streets, calling at 
the houses of all the physicians in Boston. They were 
a very wise fraternity; and their huge wigs, and black 
dresses, and solemn visages, made their wisdom appear 
even profounder than it was. One after another, he 
acquainted them with the discovery which he had hit 
upon. 

But these grave and sagacious personages would 
scarcely listen to him. The oldest doctor in town con¬ 
tented himself with remarking, that no such thing as 
inoculation was mentioned by Galen or Hippocrates, and 
it was impossible that modern physicians should be wiser 
than those old sages. A second held up his hands in 
dumb astonishment and horror, at the madness of what 
Cotton Mather proposed to do. A third told him, in 
pretty plain terms, that he knew not what he was talking 
about. A fourth requested, in the name of the whole 
medical fraternity, that Cotton Mather would confine 
his attention to people’s souls, and leave the physicians 
to take care of their bodies. 

In short, there was but a single doctor among them 
all, who would grant the poor minister so much' as a 
patient hearing. This was Doctor Zabdiel Boylston. 
He looked into the matter like a man of sense, and find¬ 
ing, beyond a doubt, that inoculation had rescued many 


8 o 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


from death, he resolved to try the experiment in his own 
family. 

And so he did. And when the other physicians heard 
of it, they arose in great fury, and began a war of words, 
written, printed, and spoken, against Cotton Mather and 
Doctor Boylston. To hear them talk, you would have 
supposed that these two harmless and benevolent men 
had plotted the ruin of the country. 

The people also took the alarm. Many, who thought 
themselves more pious than their neighbors, contended, 
that, if Providence had ordained them to die of the 
small-pox, it was sinful to aim at preventing it. The 
strangest reports were in circulation. Some said that 
Doctor Boylston had contrived a method for conveying 
the gout, rheumatism, sick headache, asthma, and all 
other diseases, from one person to another, and diffus¬ 
ing them through the whole community. Others flatly 
affirmed that the Evil One had got possession of Cotton 
Mather, and was at the bottom of the whole business. 

You must observe, children, that Cotton Mather’s 
fellow-citizens were generally inclined to doubt the 
wisdom of any measure, which he might propose to them. 
They recollected how he had led them astray in the old 
witchcraft delusionand now, if he thought and acted 
ever so wisely, it was difficult for him to get the credit 
of it. 

The people’s wrath grew so hot at his attempt to guard 
them from the small-pox, that he could not walk the 
streets in peace. Whenever the venerable form of the 
old minister, meagre and haggard with fasts and vigils, 
was seen approaching, hisses were heard, and shouts of 
derision, and scornful and bitter laughter. The women 
snatched away their children from his path, lest he 
should do them a mischief. Still, however, bending his 
head meekly, and perhaps stretching out his hands to 
bless those who reviled him, he pursued his way. But 
the tears came into his eyes to think how blindly the 
people rejected the means of safety, that were offered 
them. 

Indeed, there were melancholy sights enough in the 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


81 


streets of Boston, to draw forth the tears of a compas¬ 
sionate man. Over the door of almost every dwelling, 
a red flag was fluttering in the air. This was a signal 
that the small-pox had entered the house, and attacked 
some member of the family; or perhaps the whole 
family, old and young, were struggling at once with the 
pestilence. Friends and relatives, when they met one 
another in the streets, would hurry onward without a 
grasp of the hand, or scarcely a word of greeting, lest 
they should catch or communicate the contagion; and 
often a coffin was borne hastily along. 

“ Alas, alas ! ” said Cotton Mather to himself. “What 
shall be done for this poor, misguided people ? O that 
Providence would open their eyes, and enable them to 
discern good from evil! ” 

So furious, however, were the people, that they 
threatened vengeance against any person who should 
dare to practise inoculation, though it were only in his 
own family. This was a hard case for Cotton Mather, 
who saw no other way to rescue his poor child Samuel 
from the disease. But he resolved to save him, even if 
his house should be burnt over his head. 

“ I will not be turned aside,” said he. “ My towns¬ 
men shall see that I have faith in this thing, when I 
make the experiment on my beloved son, whose life is 
dearer to me than my own. And when I have saved 
Samuel, peradventure they will be persuaded to save 
themselves.” 

Accordingly, Samuel was inoculated; and so was Mr. 
Walter, a son-in-law of Cotton Mather. Doctor Boylston, 
likewise, inoculated many persons ; and while hundreds 
died, who had caught the contagion from the garments 
of the sick, almost all were preserved, who followed the 
wise physician’s advice. 

But the people were not yet convinced of their mis¬ 
take. One night, a destructive little instrument, called 
a hand-grenade, was thrown into Cotton Mather’s win¬ 
dow, and rolled under Grandfather’s chair. It was 
supposed to be filled with gunpowder, the explosion of 
which would have blown the poor minister to atoms. 


82 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


But the best-informed historians are of opinion, that the 
grenade contained only brimstone and assafoetida, and 
was meant to plague Cotton Mather with a very evil 
perfume. 

This is no strange thing in human experience. Men, 
who attempt to do the world more good, than the world 
is able entirely to comprehend, are almost invariably 
held in bad odor. But yet, if the wise and good man 
can wait awhile, either the present generation or pos¬ 
terity will do him justice. So it proved, in the case 
which we have been speaking of. In after years, when 
inoculation was universally practised, and thousands 
were saved from death by it, the people remembered old 
Cotton Mather, then sleeping in his grave. They 
acknowledged that the very thing for which they had so 
reviled and persecuted him, was the best and wisest 
thing he ever did. 

“ Grandfather, this is not an agreeable story,” observed 
Clara. 

“ No, Clara,” replied Grandfather. “ But it is right 
that you should know what a dark shadow this disease 
threw over the times of our forefathers. And now, if 
you wish to learn more about Cotton Mather, you must 
read his biography, written by Mr. Peabody, of Spring- 
field. You will find it very entertaining and instructive ; 
but perhaps the writer is somewhat too harsh in his 
judgment of this singular man. He estimates him 
fairly, indeed, and understands him well; but he un¬ 
riddles his character rather by acuteness than by sym¬ 
pathy. Now, his life should have been written by one, 
who, knowing all his faults, would nevertheless love 
him.” 

So Grandfather made an end of Cotton Mather, telling 
his auditors that he died in 1728, at the age of sixty- 
five, and bequeathed the chair to Elisha Cooke. This 
gentleman was a famous advocate of the people’s rights. 

The same year, William Burnet, a son of the cele¬ 
brated Bishop Burnet, arrived in Boston, with the com¬ 
mission of governor. He was the first that had been 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


83 


appointed since the departure of Colonel Shute. Gov¬ 
ernor Burnet took up his residence with Mr. Cooke, while 
the Province House was undergoing repairs. During 
this period, he was always complimented with a seat in 
Grandfather’s chair; and so comfortable did he find it, 
that on removing to the Province House, he could not 
bear to leave it behind him. Mr. Cooke, therefore, re¬ 
quested his acceptance of it. 

“ I should think,” said Laurence, “ that the people 
would have petitioned the king always to appoint a 
native-born New Englander, to govern them.” 

“ Undoubtedly it was a grievance,” answered Grand¬ 
father, “ to see men placed in this station, who perhaps 
had neither talents nor virtues to fit them for it, and 
who certainly could have no natural affection for the 
country. The king generally bestowed the governor¬ 
ships of the American colonies upon needy noblemen, 
or hangers-on at court, or disbanded officers. The 
people knew that such persons would be very likely to 
make the good of the country subservient to the wishes 
of the king. The legislature, therefore, endeavored to 
keep as much power as possible in their own hands, by 
refusing to settle a fixed salary upon the governors. 
It was thought better to pay them according to their 
deserts.” 

“ Did Governor Burnet work well for his money ? ” 
asked Charley. 

Grandfather could not help smiling at the simplicity 
of Charley’s question. Nevertheless, it put the matter 
in a very plain point of view. 

He then described the character of Governor Burnet, 
representing him as a good scholar, possessed of much 
ability, and likewise of unspotted integrity. His story 
affords a striking example, how unfortunate it is for a 
man, who is placed as ruler over a country, to be com¬ 
pelled to aim at anything but the good of the people. 
Governor Burnet was so chained down by his instruc¬ 
tions from the king, that he could not act as he might 
otherwise have wished. Consequently, his whole term 
of office was wasted in quarrels with the legislature. 


§4 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


“ I am afraid, children,” said Grandfather, “ that 
Governor Burnet found but little rest or comfort in our 
old chair. Here he used to sit, dressed in a coat which 
was made of rough, shaggy cloth outside, but of smooth 
velvet within. It was said that his own character resem¬ 
bled that coat, for his outward manner was rough, but 
his inward disposition soft and kind. It is a pity that 
such a man could not have been kept free from trouble. 
But so harassing were his disputes with the represen¬ 
tatives of the people, that he fell into a fever, of which 
he died, in 1729. The legislature had refused him a 
salary, while alive; but they appropriated money enough 
to give him a splendid and pompous funeral.” 

And now Grandfather perceived that little Alice had 
fallen fast asleep, with her head upon his footstool. In¬ 
deed, as Clara observed, she had been sleeping from the 
time of Sir Hovenden Walker’s expedition against Quebec, 
until the death of Governor Burnet — a period of about 
eighteen years. And yet, after so long a nap, sweet 
little Alice was a golden-haired child, of scarcely five 
years old. 

“ It puts me in mind,” said Laurence, “ of the story 
of the Enchanted Princess, who slept many a hundred 
years, and awoke as young and beautiful as ever.” 


CHAPTER VI 


A FEW evenings afterwards, cousin Clara happened 
to inquire of Grandfather, whether the old chair 
had never been present at a ball. At the same time, 
little Alice brought forward a doll, with whom she had 
been holding a long conversation. 

“ See, Grandfather,” cried she. “ Did such a pretty 
lady as this ever sit in your great chair ? ” 

These questions led Grandfather to talk about the 
fashions and manners, which now began to be intro¬ 
duced from England into the provinces. The simplicity 
of the good old Puritan times was fast disappearing. 
This was partly owing to the increasing number and 
wealth of the inhabitants, and to the additions which 
they continually received, by the arrival and settlement 
of people from beyond the sea. 

Another cause of a pompous and artificial mode of 
life, among those who could afford it, was, that the ex¬ 
ample was set by the royal governors. Under the old 
charter, the governors were the representatives of the 
people, and therefore their way of living had probably 
been marked by a popular simplicity. But now, as they 
represented the person of the king, they thought it 
necessary to preserve the dignity of their station, by 
the practice of high and gorgeous ceremonials. And, 
besides, the profitable offices under the government were 
filled by men who had lived in London, and had there 
contracted fashionable and luxurious habits of living, 
which they would not now lay aside. The wealthy peo¬ 
ple of the province imitated them ; and thus began a 
general change in social life. 

“So, my dear Clara,” said Grandfather, “after our 
chair had entered the Province House, it must often have 

85 


86 


GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR 


been present at balls and festivals, though I cannot give 
you a description of any particular one. But I doubt 
not that they were very magnificent; and slaves in gor¬ 
geous liveries waited on the guests, and offered them 
wine in goblets of massive silver.” 

“ Were there slaves in those days ? ” exclaimed Clara. 

“Yes, black slaves and white,” replied Grandfather. 
“ Our ancestors not only bought negroes from Africa, 
but Indians from South America, and white people from 
Ireland. These last were sold, not for life, but for a 
certain number of years, in order to pay the expenses of 
their voyage across the Atlantic. Nothing was more 
common than to see a lot of likely Irish girls, advertised 
for sale in the newspapers. As for the little negro 
babies, they were offered to be given away, like young 
kittens.” 

“ Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play with, 
instead of her doll,” said Charley, laughing. 

But little Alice clasped the waxen doll closer to her 
bosom. 

“ Now, as for this pretty doll, my little Alice,” said 
Grandfather, “ I wish you could have seen what splendid 
dresses the ladies wore in those times. They had silks, 
and satins, and damasks, and brocades, and high head¬ 
dresses, and all sorts of fine things. And they used to 
wear hooped petticoats, of such enormous size that it was 
quite a journey to walk round them.” 

“ And how did the gentlemen dress ? ” asked Charley. 

“ With full as much magnificence as the ladies,” an¬ 
swered Grandfather. “ For their holiday suits, they 
had coats of figured velvet, crimson, green, blue, and 
all other gay colors, embroidered with gold or silver lace. 
Their waistcoats, which were five times as large as 
modern ones, were very splendid. Sometimes, the 
whole waistcoat, which came down almost to the knees, 
was made of gold brocade.” 

“Why, the wearer must have shone like a golden 
image ! ” said Clara. 

“ And, then,” continued Grandfather, “ they wore 
various sorts of periwigs, such as the Tie, the Spencer, 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


87 


the Brigadier, the Major, the Albemarle, the Ramilies, 
the Feather-top, and the Full-bottom! Their three- 
cornered hats were laced with gold or silver. They 
had shining buckles at the knees of their smallclothes, 
and buckles likewise in their shoes. They wore swords 
with beautiful hilts, either of silver, or sometimes of 
polished steel, inlaid with gold.” 

“ Oh, I should like to wear a sword! ” cried Charley. 

“ And an embroidered crimson velvet coat,” said 
Clara, laughing, “and a gold brocade waistcoat down 
to your knees ! ” 

“ And knee-buckles and shoe-buckles,” said Laurence, 
laughing also. 

“And a periwig,” added little Alice, soberly, not 
knowing what was the article of dress which she recom¬ 
mended to our friend Charley. 

Grandfather smiled at the idea of Charley’s sturdy 
little figure in such a grotesque caparison. He then 
went on with the history of the chair, and told the 
children, that, in 1730, King George the Second 
appointed Jonathan Belcher to be Governor of Mas¬ 
sachusetts, in place of the deceased Governor Burnet. 
Mr. Belcher was a native of the province, but had spent 
much of his life in Europe. 

The new governor found Grandfather’s chair in the 
Province House. He was struck with its noble and 
stately aspect, but was of opinion, that age and hard 
services had made it scarcely so fit for courtly company, 
as when it stood in the Earl of Lincoln’s hall. Where¬ 
fore, as Governor Belcher was fond of splendor, he 
employed a skilful artist to beautify the chair. This 
was done by polishing and varnishing it, and by gilding 
the carved work of the elbows, and likewise the oaken 
flowers of the back. The lion’s head now shone like a 
veritable lump of gold. Finally, Governor Belcher gave 
the chair a cushion of blue damask, with a rich golden 
fringe. 

“ Our good old chair being thus glorified,” proceeded 
Grandfather, “ it glittered with a great deal more splen¬ 
dor than it had exhibited just a century before, when 


88 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


the Lady Arbella brought it over from England. Most 
people mistook it for a chair of the latest London fash¬ 
ion. And this may serve for an example, that there is 
almost always an old and time-worn substance under all 
the glittering show of new invention.” 

“ Grandfather, I cannot see any of the gilding,” re¬ 
marked Charley, who had been examining the chair very 
minutely. 

“ You will not wonder that it has been rubbed off,” 
replied Grandfather, “ when you hear all the adven¬ 
tures that have since befallen the chair. Gilded it was ; 
and the handsomest room in the Province House was 
adorned by it.” 

There was not much to interest the children, in what 
happened during the years that Governor Belcher 
remained in the chair. At first, like Colonel Shute and 
Governor Burnet, he was engaged in disputing with the 
legislature about his salary. But, as he found it impos¬ 
sible to get a fixed sum, he finally obtained the king’s 
leave to accept whatever the legislature chose to give 
him. And thus the people triumphed, after this long 
contest for the privilege of expending their own money 
as they saw fit. 

The remainder of Governor Belcher’s term of office 
was principally taken up in endeavoring to settle the 
currency. Honest John Hull’s pine-tree shillings had 
long ago been worn out, or lost, or melted down again, 
and their place was supplied by bills of paper or parch¬ 
ment, which were nominally valued at three pence and 
upwards. The value of these bills kept continually 
sinking, because the real hard money could not be 
obtained for them. They were a great deal worse than 
the old Indian currency of clam-shells. These disorders 
of the circulating medium were a source of endless 
plague and perplexity to the rulers and legislators, not 
only in Governor Belcher’s days, but for many years 
before and afterwards. 

Finally, the people suspected that Governor Belcher 
was secretly endeavoring to establish the Episcopal 
mode of worship in the provinces. There was enough 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


89 


of the old Puritan spirit remaining to cause most of the 
true sons of New England to look with horror upon 
such an attempt. Great exertions were made to induce 
the king to remove the governor. Accordingly, in 1740, 
he was compelled to resign his office, and Grandfather’s 
chair into the bargain, to Mr. Shirley. 


CHAPTER VII 


“\A / ILLIAM SHIRLEY,” said Grandfather, “had 

VV come from England a few years before, and 
begun to practise law in Boston. You will think, per¬ 
haps, that, as he had been a lawyer, the new governor 
used to sit in our great chair, reading heavy law-books 
from morning to night. On the contrary, he was as 
stirring and active a governor as Massachusetts ever 
had. Even Sir William Phipps hardly equalled him. 
The first year or two of his administration was spent in 
trying to regulate the currency. But, in 1744, after a 
peace of more than thirty years, war broke out between 
France and England.” 

“And I suppose,” said Charley, “the governor went 
to take Canada.” 

“ Not exactly, Charley,” said Grandfather, “ though 
you have made a pretty shrewd conjecture. He planned, 
in 1745, an expedition against Louisbourg. This was a 
fortified city, on the Island of Cape Breton, near Nova 
Scotia. Its walls were of immense height and strength, 
and were defended by hundreds of heavy cannon. It 
was the strongest fortress which the French possessed 
in America ; and if the king of France had guessed Gov¬ 
ernor Shirley’s intentions, he would have sent all the 
ships he could muster to protect it.” 

As the siege of Louisbourg was one of the most re¬ 
markable events that ever the inhabitants of New Eng¬ 
land were engaged in, Grandfather endeavored to give 
his auditors a lively idea of the spirit with which they 
set about it. We shall call his description 

The Provincial Muster 

The expedition against Louisbourg first began to be 
thought of in the month of January. From that time, 
the governor’s chair was continually surrounded by 

90 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


9 1 


counsellors, representatives, clergymen, captains, pilots, 
and all manner of people, with whom he consulted about 
this wonderful project. 

First of all, it was necessary to provide men and arms. 
The legislature immediately sent out a huge quantity of 
paper money, with which, as if by magic spell, the gov¬ 
ernor hoped to get possession of all the old cannon, pow¬ 
der and balls, rusty swords and muskets, and everything 
else that would be serviceable in killing Frenchmen. 
Drums were beaten in all the villages of Massachusetts 
to enlist soldiers for the service. Messages were sent to 
the other governors of New England, and to New York 
and Pennsylvania, entreating them to unite in this cru¬ 
sade against the French. All these provinces agreed 
to give what assistance they could. 

But there was one very important thing to be decided. 
Who shall be the General of this great army ? Peace 
had continued such an unusual length of time, that there 
was now less military experience among the colonists, 
than at any former period. The old Puritans had al¬ 
ways kept their weapons bright, and were never desti¬ 
tute of warlike captains, who were skilful in assault 
or defence. But the swords of their descendants had 
grown rusty by disuse. There was nobody in New Eng¬ 
land that knew anything about sieges, or any other 
regular fighting. The only persons at all acquainted 
with warlike business were a few elderly men, who had 
hunted Indians through the underbrush of the forest, 
in old Governor Dummer’s war. 

In this dilemma, Governor Shirley fixed upon a 
wealthy merchant, named William Pepperell, who was 
pretty well known and liked among the people. As to 
military skill, he had no more of it than his neighbors. 
But as the governor urged him very pressingly, Mr. 
Pepperell consented to shut up his ledger, gird on a 
sword, and assume the title of General. 

Meantime, what a hubbub was raised by this scheme! 
Rub-a-dub-dub! Rub-a-dub-dub ! The rattle of drums, 
beaten out of all manner of time, was heard above every 
other sound. 


9 1 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


Nothing now was so valuable as arms, of whatever 
style and fashion they might be. The bellows blew, and 
the hammer clanged continually upon the anvil, while 
the blacksmiths were repairing the broken weapons of 
other wars. Doubtless, some of the soldiers lugged out 
those enormous, heavy muskets, which used to be fired 
with rests, in the time of the early Puritans. Great 
horse-pistols, too, were found, which would go off with 
a bang like a cannon. Old cannon, with touch-holes 
almost as big as their muzzles, were looked upon as 
inestimable treasures. Pikes, which, perhaps, had been 
handled by Miles Standish’s soldiers, now made their 
appearance again. Many a young man ransacked the 
garret, and brought forth his great-grandfather’s sword, 
corroded with rust, and stained with the blood of King 
Philip’s war. 

Never had there been such arming as this, when a 
people, so long peaceful, rose to the war, with the best 
weapons that they could lay their hands upon. And 
still the drums were heard — rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub- 
dub ! — in all the towns and villages; and louder and 
more numerous grew the trampling footsteps of the 
recruits that marched behind. 

And now the army began to gather into Boston. 
Tall, lanky, awkward fellows came in squads, and com¬ 
panies, and regiments, swaggering along, dressed in 
their brown homespun clothes and blue yarn stockings. 
They stooped, as if they still had hold of the plough- 
handles, and marched without any time or tune. Hither 
they came, from the corn-fields, from the clearing in the 
forest, from the blacksmith’s forge, from the carpenter’s 
workshop, and from the shoemaker’s seat. They were 
an army of rough faces and sturdy frames. A trained 
officer of Europe would have laughed at them, till his 
sides had ached. But there was a spirit in their bosoms, 
which is more essential to soldiership than to wear red 
coats, and march in stately ranks to the sound of regu¬ 
lar music. 

Still was heard the beat of the drum — rub-a-dub- 
dub! — and now a host of three or four thousand men 


— ■ ■ l » w ■ ■■■ < 



y y 


‘‘A>'d now the Army began to gather into Boston 




























GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


93 


had found their way to Boston. Little quiet was there 
then ! Forth scampered the school-boys, shouting be¬ 
hind the drums. The whole town — the whole land — 
was on fire with war. 

After the arrival of the troops, they were probably 
reviewed upon the Common. We may imagine Gov¬ 
ernor Shirley and General Pepperell riding slowly along 
the line, while the drummers beat strange old tunes, 
like psalm-tunes, and all the officers and soldiers put 
on their most warlike looks. It would have been a 
terrible sight for the Frenchmen, could they but have 
witnessed it! 

At length, on the twenty-fourth of March, 1745, the 
army gave a parting shout, and set sail from Boston in 
ten or twelve vessels, which had been hired by the gov¬ 
ernor. A few days afterwards, an English fleet, com¬ 
manded by Commodore Peter Warren, sailed also for 
Louisbourg, to assist the provincial army. So, now, 
after all this bustle of preparation, the town and province 
were left in stillness and repose. 

But stillness and repose, at such a time of anxious 
expectation, are hard to bear. The hearts of the old 
people and women sank within them, when they re¬ 
flected what perils they had sent their sons, and hus¬ 
bands, and brothers, to encounter. The boys loitered 
heavily to school, missing the rub-a-dub-dub, and the 
trampling march, in the rear of which they had so 
lately run and shouted. All the ministers prayed ear¬ 
nestly, in their pulpits, for a blessing on the army of 
New England. In every family, when the good man 
lifted up his heart in domestic worship, the burthen of 
his petition was for the safety of those dear ones, who 
were fighting under the walls of Louisbourg. 

Governor Shirley, all this time, was probably in an 
ecstasy of impatience. He could not sit still a moment. 
He found no quiet, not even in Grandfather’s chair, but 
hurried to and fro, and up and down the staircase of 
the Province House. Now, he mounted to the cupola, 
and looked seaward, straining his eyes to discover if 
there were a sail upon the horizon. Now, he hastened 


94 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


down the stairs, and stood beneath the portal, on the 
red free-stone steps, to receive some mud-bespattered 
courtier, from whom he hoped to hear tidings of the 
army. — A few weeks after the departure of the troops, 
Commodore Warren sent a small vessel to Boston with 
two French prisoners. One of them was Monsieur 
Bouladrie, who had been commander of a battery, out¬ 
side of the walls of Louisbourg. The other was the 
Marquis de la Maison Forte, captain of a French frig¬ 
ate, which had been taken by Commodore Warren’s 
fleet. These prisoners assured Governor Shirley, that 
the fortifications of Louisbourg were far too strong ever 
to be stormed by the provincial army. 

Day after day, and week after week, went on. The 
people grew almost heart-sick with anxiety; for the 
flower of the country was at peril in this adventurous 
expedition. It was now daybreak, on the morning of 
the third of July. 

But hark! what sound is this ? The hurried clang 
of a bell! There is the Old North, pealing suddenly 
out! — there, the Old South strikes in ! — now, the peal 
comes from the church in Brattle Street! — the bells of 
nine or ten steeples are all flinging their iron voices, at 
once, upon the morning breeze! Is it joy or alarm? 
There goes the roar of a cannon, too! A royal salute 
is thundered forth. And now, we hear the loud ex¬ 
ulting shout of a multitude, assembled in the street. 
Huzza, huzza! Louisbourg has surrendered ! Huzza! 

“ Oh, Grandfather, how glad I should have been to 
live in those times! ” cried Charley. “ And what re¬ 
ward did the king give to General Peppered and Gov¬ 
ernor Shirley ? ” 

“ He made Peppered a baronet; so that he was now 
to be called Sir William Pepperell,” replied Grand¬ 
father. “ He likewise appointed both Peppered and 
Shirley to be colonels in the royal army. These re¬ 
wards, and higher ones, were wed deserved; for this 
was the greatest triumph that the English met with in 
the whole course of that war. General Peppered be- 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


95 


came a man of great fame. I have seen a full-length 
portrait of him, representing him in a splendid scarlet 
uniform, standing before the walls of Louisbourg, while 
several bombs are falling through the air.” 

“ But did the country gain any real good by the con¬ 
quest of Louisbourg ? ” asked Laurence. “ Or was all 
the benefit reaped by Pepperell and Shirley ? ” 

“The English Parliament,” said Grandfather, “agreed 
to pay the colonists for all the expenses of the siege. 
Accordingly, in 1749, two hundred and fifteen chests of 
Spanish dollars, and one hundred casks of copper coin, 
were brought from England to Boston. The whole 
amount was about a million of dollars. Twenty-seven 
carts and trucks carried this money from the wharf to 
the provincial treasury. Was not this a pretty liberal 
reward ? ” 

“The mothers of the young men, who were killed at 
the siege of Louisbourg, would not have thought it so,” 
said Laurence. 

“No, Laurence,” rejoined Grandfather; “and every 
warlike achievement involves an amount of physical 
and moral evil, for which all the gold in the Spanish 
mines would not be the slightest recompense. But we 
are to consider that this siege was one of the occasions 
on which the colonists tested their ability for war, and 
thus were prepared for the great contest of the Revolu¬ 
tion. In that point of view, the valor of our forefathers 
was its own reward.” 

Grandfather went on to say, that the success of the 
expedition against Louisbourg induced Shirley and Pep¬ 
pered to form a scheme for conquering Canada. This 
plan, however, was not carried into execution. 

In the year 1746, great terror was excited by the 
arrival of a formidable French fleet upon the coast. It 
was commanded by the Duke d’Anville, and consisted 
of forty ships of war, besides vessels with soldiers on 
board. With this force the French intended to retake 
Louisbourg, and afterwards to ravage the whole of New 
England. Many people were ready to give up the coun¬ 
try for lost. 


96 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


But the hostile fleet met with so many disasters and 
losses, by storm and shipwreck, that the Duke d’Anville 
is said to have poisoned himself in despair. The officer 
next in command threw himself upon his sword and 
perished. Thus deprived of their commanders, the 
remainder of the ships returned to France. This was 
as great a deliverance for New England as that which 
Old England had experienced in the days of Queen 
Elizabeth, when the Spanish Armada was wrecked upon 
her coast. 

“In 1747,” proceeded Grandfather, “Governor Shir¬ 
ley was driven from the Province House, not by a hos¬ 
tile fleet and army, but by a mob of the Boston people. 
They were so incensed at the conduct of the British 
Commodore Knowles, who had impressed some of their 
fellow-citizens, that several thousands of them surrounded 
the council-chamber, and threw stones and brick-bats into 
the windows. The governor attempted to pacify them; 
but, not succeeding, he thought it necessary to leave the 
town, and take refuge within the walls of Castle William. 
Quiet was not restored, until Commodore Knowles had 
sent back the impressed men. This affair was a flash 
of spirit that might have warned the English not to 
venture upon any oppressive measures against their 
colonial brethren.” 

Peace being declared between France and England in 
1748, the governor had now an opportunity to sit at his 
ease in Grandfather’s chair. Such repose, however, 
appears not to have suited his disposition; for, in the 
following year, he went to England, and thence was 
despatched to France on public business. Meanwhile, 
as Shirley had not resigned his office, Lieutenant-Gov¬ 
ernor Phipps acted as chief magistrate in his stead. 


CHAPTER VIII 


I N the early twilight of Thanksgiving eve, came Lau¬ 
rence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice, hand 
in hand, and stood in a semicircle round Grandfather’s 
chair. They had been joyous, throughout that day of 
festivity, mingling together in all kinds of play, so that 
the house had echoed with their airy mirth. 

Grandfather, too, had been happy, though not mirth¬ 
ful. He felt that this was to be set down as one of the 
good Thanksgivings of his life. In truth, all his former 
Thanksgivings had borne their part in the present one; 
for his years of infancy, and youth, and manhood, with 
their blessings and their griefs, had flitted before him, 
while he sat silently in the great chair. Vanished 
scenes had been pictured in the air. The forms of 
departed friends had visited him. Voices, to be heard 
no more on earth, had sent an echo from the infinite 
and the eternal. These shadows, if such they were, 
seemed almost as real to him, as what was actually 
present—as the merry shouts and laughter of the chil¬ 
dren — as their figures, dancing like sunshine before his 
eyes. 

He felt that the past was not taken from him. The 
happiness of former days was a possession forever. 
And there was something in the mingled sorrow of his 
lifetime, that became akin to happiness, after being long 
treasured in the depths of his heart. There it under¬ 
went a change, and grew more precious than pure gold. 

And now came the children, somewhat aweary with 
their wild play, and sought the quiet enjoyment of Grand¬ 
father’s talk. The good old gentleman rubbed his eyes, 
and smiled round upon them all. He was glad as most 
aged people are, to find that he was yet of consequence, 
and could give pleasure to the world. After being so 
merry all day long, did these children desire to hear his 

97 


98 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


sober talk ? Oh, then, old Grandfather had yet a place 
to fill among living men, — or at least among boys and 
girls! 

“ Begin quick, Grandfather,” cried little Alice; “ for 
Pussy wants to hear you.” 

And, truly, our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon the 
hearth-rug, basking in the warmth of the fire, pricking 
up her ears, and turning her head from the children to 
Grandfather, and from Grandfather to the children, as 
if she felt herself very sympathetic with them all. A 
loud purr, like the singing of a tea-kettle, or the hum of 
a spinning-wheel, testified that she was as comfortable 
and happy as a cat could be. For Puss had feasted, 
and therefore, like Grandfather and the children, had 
kept a good Thanksgiving. 

“ Does Pussy want to hear me ? ” said Grandfather, 
smiling. “Well; we must please Pussy if we can ! ” 

And so he took up the history of the chair, from the 
.epoch of the peace of 1748. By one of the provisions 
of the treaty, Louisbourg, which the New Englanders 
had been at so much pains to take, was restored to 
the king of France. 

The French were afraid that, unless their colonies 
should be better defended than heretofore, another war 
might deprive them of the whole. Almost as soon as 
peace was declared, therefore, they began to build 
strong fortifications in the interior of North America. 
It was strange to behold these warlike castles, on the 
banks of solitary lakes, and far in the midst of woods. 
The Indian, paddling his birch-canoie on Lake Cham¬ 
plain, looked up at the high ramparts of Ticonderoga, 
stone piled on stone, bristling with cannon, and the 
white flag of France floating above. There were similar 
fortifications on Lake Ontario, and near the great Falls 
of Niagara, and at the sources of the Ohio River. And 
all around these forts and castles lay the eternal forest; 
and the roll of the drum died away in those deep 
solitudes. 

The truth was, that the French intended to build 
forts, all the way from Canada to Louisiana. They 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


99 


would then have had a wall of military strength, at the 
back of the English settlements, so as completely to 
hem them in. The king of England considered the 
building of these forts as a sufficient cause of war, 
which was accordingly commenced in 1754. 

“ Governor Shirley,” said Grandfather, “ had returned 
to Boston in 1753. While in Paris, he had married a 
second wife, a young French girl, and now brought her 
to the Province House. But, when war was breaking 
out, it was impossible for such a bustling man to stay 
quietly at home, sitting in our old chair, with his wife 
and children round about him. He therefore obtained 
a command in the English forces.” 

“ And what did Sir William Peppered do ? ” asked 
Charley. 

“ He staid at home,” said Grandfather, “ and was 
general of the militia. The veteran regiments of the 
English army, which were now sent across the Atlantic, 
would have scorned to fight under the orders of an 
old American merchant. And now began what aged 
people call the Old French War. It would be going 
too far astray from the history of our chair, to tell you 
one half of the battles that were fought. I cannot even 
allow myself to describe the bloody defeat of General 
Braddock, near the sources of the Ohio River, in 1755. 
But I must not omit to mention, that when the English 
general was mortally wounded, and his army routed, 
the remains of it were preserved by the skill and valor 
of George Washington.” 

At the mention of this illustrious name, the children 
started, as if a sudden sunlight had gleamed upon the 
history of their country, now that the great Deliverer 
had arisen above the horizon. 

Among all the events of the Old French War, 
Grandfather thought that there was none more inter¬ 
esting than the removal of the inhabitants of Acadia. 
From the first settlement of this ancient province of the 
French, in 1604, until the present time, its people could 
scarcely ever know what kingdom held dominion over 
them. They were a peaceful race, taking no delight in 


IOO 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


warfare, and caring nothing for military renown. And 
yet, in every war, their region was infested with iron- 
hearted soldiers, both French and English, who fought 
one another for the privilege of ill-treating these poor 
harmless Acadians. Sometimes the treaty of peace 
made them subjects of one king, sometimes of another. 

At the peace of 1748, Acadia had been ceded to 
England. But the French still claimed a large portion 
of it, and built forts for its defence. In 1755, these 
forts were taken, and the whole of Acadia was con¬ 
quered, by three thousand men from Massachusetts, 
under the command of General Winslow. The inhabit¬ 
ants were accused of supplying the French with pro¬ 
visions, and of doing other things that violated their 
neutrality. 

“These accusations were probably true,” observed 
Grandfather; “ for the Acadians were descended from 
the French, and had the same friendly feelings towards 
them, that the people of Massachusetts had for the 
English. But their punishment was severe. The 
English determined to tear these poor people from 
their native homes and scatter them abroad.” 

The Acadians were about seven thousand in number. 
A considerable part of them were made prisoners, and 
transported to the English colonies. All their dwellings 
and churches were burnt, their cattle were killed, and 
the whole country was laid waste, so that none of them 
might find shelter or food in their old homes, after the 
departure of the English. One thousand of the prison¬ 
ers were sent to Massachusetts; and Grandfather 
allowed his fancy to follow them thither, and tried to 
give his auditors an idea of their situation. 

We shall call this passage the story of 

The Acadian Exiles 

A sad day it was for the poor Acadians, when the 
armed soldiers drove them, at the point of the bayonet, 
down to the seashore. Very sad were they, likewise, 
while tossing upon the ocean, in the crowded transport 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


IOI 


vessels. But, methinks, it must have been sadder still, 
when they were landed on the Long Wharf, in Boston, 
and left to themselves, on a foreign strand. 

Then, probably, they huddled together, and looked 
into one another’s faces for the comfort which was not 
there. Hitherto, they had been confined on board of 
separate vessels, so that they could not tell whether 
their relatives and friends were prisoners along with 
them. But, now, at least, they could tell that many had 
been left behind, or transported to other regions. 

Now, a desolate wife might be heard calling for her 
husband. He, alas ! had gone, she knew not whither, 
or perhaps had fled into the woods of Acadia, and had 
now returned to weep over the ashes of their dwelling. 

An aged widow was crying out, in a querulous lament¬ 
able tone, for her son, whose affectionate toil had sup¬ 
ported her for many a year. He was not in the crowd 
of exiles; and what could this aged widow do but sink 
down and die ? Young men and maidens, whose hearts 
had been torn asunder by separation, had hoped, during 
the voyage, to meet their beloved ones at its close. Now, 
they began to feel that they were separated forever. 
And, perhaps, a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired 
child of five years old, the very picture of our little 
Alice, was weeping and wailing for her mother, and 
found not a soul to give her a kind word. 

Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were here ! 
Country lost! — friends lost! — their rural wealth of 
cottage, field, and herds, all lost together! Every tie 
between these poor exiles and the world seemed to be 
cut off at once. They must have regretted that they 
had not died before their exile; for even the English 
would not have been so pitiless as to deny them graves 
in their native soil. The dead were happy; for they 
were not exiles! 

While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity 
and inquisitiveness of the New England people would 
naturally lead them into the midst of the poor Acadians. 
Prying busybodies thrust their heads into the circle, 
wherever two or three of the exiles were conversing 


102 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


together. How puzzled did they look, at the outlandish 
sound of the French tongue! There were seen the 
New England women, too. They had just come out of 
their warm, safe homes, where everything was regular 
and comfortable, and where their husbands and children 
would be with them at nightfall. Surely, they could 
pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia! Or, 
did the sign of the cross, which the Acadians con¬ 
tinually made upon their breasts, and which was ab¬ 
horred by the descendants of the Puritans — did that 
sign exclude all pity ? 

Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood of 
Boston school-boys, who came running, with laughter 
and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of oddly-dressed 
foreigners. At first they danced and capered around 
them, full of merriment and mischief. But the despair 
of the Acadians soon had its effect upon these thought¬ 
less lads, and melted them into tearful sympathy. 

At a little distance from the throng, might be seen 
the wealthy and pompous merchants, whose warehouses 
stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult to touch these 
rich men’s hearts; for they had all the comforts of the 
world at their command; and when they walked abroad, 
their feelings were seldom moved, except by the rough¬ 
ness of the pavement, irritating their gouty toes. Lean¬ 
ing upon their gold-headed canes, they watched the scene 
with an aspect of composure. But, let us hope, they 
distributed some of their superfluous coin among these 
hapless exiles, to purchase food and a night’s lodging. 

After standing a long time at the end of the wharf, 
gazing seaward, as if to catch a glimpse of their lost 
Acadia, the strangers began to stray into the town. 

They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups, 
here a hundred, there a score, there ten, there three or 
four, who possessed some bond of unity among them¬ 
selves. Here and there was one, who, utterly desolate, 
stole away by himself, seeking no companionship. 

Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering 
about the streets, telling the town’s-people, in outland¬ 
ish, unintelligible words, that no earthly affliction ever 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


103 


equalled what had befallen them. Man’s brotherhood 
with man was sufficient to make the New Englanders 
understand this language. The strangers wanted food. 
Some of them sought hospitality at the doors of the 
stately mansions, which then stood in the vicinity of 
Hanover Street and the North Square. Others were 
applicants at the humble wooden tenements, where 
dwelt the petty shop-keepers and mechanics. Pray 
Heaven, that no family in Boston turned one of these 
poor exiles from their door! It would be a reproach 
upon New England, a crime worthy of heavy retribu¬ 
tion, if the aged women and children, or even the strong 
men, were allowed to feel the pinch of hunger. 

Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless 
wanderings through the town, found themselves near 
a large brick edifice, which was fenced in from the 
street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic figures. 
They saw a flight of red freestone steps, ascending to a 
portal, above which was a balcony and balustrade. 
Misery and desolation give men the right of free pas¬ 
sage everywhere. Let us suppose, then, that they 
mounted the flight of steps, and passed into the Prov¬ 
ince House. Making their way into one of the apart¬ 
ments, they beheld a richly-clad gentleman, seated in a 
stately chair with gilding upon the carved work of its 
back, and a gilded lion’s head at the summit. This was 
Governor Shirley, meditating upon matters of war and 
state, in Grandfather’s chair! 

If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting 
what a ruin of peaceful and humble hopes had been 
wrought by the cold policy of the statesman, and the 
iron hand of the warrior, might have drawn a deep moral 
from it. It should have taught him that the poor man’s 
hearth is sacred, and that armies and nations have no 
right to violate it. It should have made him feel, that 
England’s triumph, and increased dominion, could not 
compensate to mankind, nor atone to Heaven, for the 
ashes of a single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus 
that statesmen and warriors moralize. 

“ Grandfather,” cried Laurence, with emotion trem- 


104 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


bling in his voice, “ did iron-hearted War itself ever do 
so hard and cruel a thing as this before ? ” 

“ You have read in history, Laurence, of whole regions 
wantonly laid waste,” said Grandfather. “In the re¬ 
moval of the Acadians, the troops were guilty of no 
cruelty or outrage, except what was inseparable from 
the measure.” 

Little Alice, whose eyes had, all along, been brimming 
full of tears, now burst forth a-sobbing; for Grandfather 
had touched her sympathies more than he intended. 

“ To think of a whole people, homeless in the world! ” 
said Clara, with moistened eyes., “There never was 
anything so sad ! ” 

“ It was their own fault,” cried Charley, energetically. 
“ Why did not they fight for the country where they 
were born ? Then if the worst had happened to them 
they could only have been killed and buried there. 
They would not have been exiles then! ” 

“Certainly, their lot was as hard as death,” said 
Grandfather. “ All that could be done for them, in the 
English provinces, was to send them to the almshouses, 
or bind them out to task-masters. And this was the 
fate of persons, who had possessed a comfortable prop¬ 
erty in their native country. Some of them found 
means to embark for France; but though it was the land 
of their forefathers, it must have been a foreign land to 
them. Those who remained behind always cherished a 
belief, that the king of France would never make peace 
with England, till his poor Acadians were restored their 
country and their homes.” 

“ And did he ? ” inquired Clara. 

“Alas, my dear Clara,” said Grandfather, “it is im¬ 
probable that the slightest whisper of the woes of Acadia 
ever reached the ears of Louis the Fifteenth. The 
exiles grew old in the British provinces, and never saw 
Acadia again. Their descendants remain among us, to 
this day. They have forgotten the language of their 
ancestors, and probably retain no tradition of their mis¬ 
fortunes. But, methinks, if I were an American poet, 
I would choose Acadia for the subject of my song.” 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


105 


Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the most 
famous of American poets has drawn sweet tears from 
all of us, by his beautiful poem of Evangeline. 

And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around the 
Thanksgiving fireside, by a story that made the children 
feel the blessing of a secure and peaceful hearth, Grand¬ 
father put off the other events of the Old French War 
till the next evening. 


CHAPTER IX 


I N the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the red 
beams of the fire were dancing upon the wall, the 
children besought Grandfather to tell them what had 
next happened to the old chair. 

“ Our chair,” said Grandfather, “ stood all this time in 
the Province House. But Governor Shirley had seldom 
an opportunity to repose within its arms. He was lead¬ 
ing his troops through the forest, or sailing in a flat-boat 
on Lake Ontario, or sleeping in his tent, while the awful 
cataract of Niagara sent its roar through his dreams. 
At one period, in the early part of the war, Shirley had 
the chief command of all the king’s forces in America.” 

“ Did his young wife go with him to the war ? ” asked 
Clara. 

“ I rather imagine,” replied Grandfather, “ that she 
remained in Boston. This lady, I suppose, had our 
chair all to herself, and used to sit in it, during those 
brief intervals when a young French woman can be quiet 
enough to sit in a chair. The people of Massachusetts 
were never fond of Governor Shirley’s young French 
wife. They had a suspicion that she betrayed the mili¬ 
tary plans of the English to the generals of the French 
armies.” 

“ And was it true ? ” inquired Clara. 

“ Probably not,” said Grandfather. “ But the mere 
suspicion did Shirley a great deal of harm. Partly, 
perhaps, for this reason, but much more on account of 
his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived of his com¬ 
mand, in 1756, and recalled to England. He never 
afterwards made any figure in public life.” 

As Grandfather’s chair had no locomotive properties, 
and did not even run on castors, it cannot be supposed 
to have marched in person to the Old French War. 
But Grandfather delayed its momentous history, while 

106 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


107 


he touched briefly upon some of the bloody battles, 
sieges, and onslaughts, the tidings of which kept con¬ 
tinually coming to the ears of the old inhabitants of 
Boston. The woods of the north were populous with 
fighting men. All the Indian tribes uplifted their toma¬ 
hawks, and took part either with the French or English. 
The rattle of musketry and roar of cannon disturbed 
the ancient quiet of the forest, and actually drove the 
bears and other wild beasts to the more cultivated portion 
of the country in the vicinity of the seaports. The chil¬ 
dren felt as if they were transported back to those for¬ 
gotten times, and that the couriers from the army, with 
the news of a battle lost or won, might even now be 
heard galloping through the streets. Grandfather told 
them about the battle of Lake George, in 1755, when 
the gallant Colonel Williams, a Massachusetts officer, 
was slain, with many of his countrymen. But General 
Johnson and General Lyman, with their army, drove 
back the enemy, and mortally wounded the French 
leader, who was called the Baron Dieskau. A gold 
watch, pilfered from the poor Baron, is still in exist¬ 
ence, and still marks each moment of time, without com¬ 
plaining of weariness, although its hands have been in 
motion ever since the hour of battle. 

In the first years of the war, there were many dis¬ 
asters on the English side. Among these was the loss 
of Fort Oswego, in 1756, and of Fort William Henry, 
in the following year. But the greatest misfortune that 
befell the English, during the whole war, was the repulse 
of General Abercrombie, with his army, from the ram¬ 
parts of Ticonderoga in 1758. He attempted to storm 
the walls; but a terrible conflict ensued, in which more 
than two thousand Englishmen and New Englanders 
were killed or wounded. The slain soldiers now lie 
buried around that ancient fortress. When the plough 
passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a mould¬ 
ering bone. 

Up to this period, none of the English generals had 
shown any military talent. Shirley, the Earl of London, 
and General Abercrombie, had each held the chief com- 


108 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

mand, at different times; but not one of them had won 
a single important triumph for the British arms. This 
ill success was not owing to the want of means; for, in 
1758, General Abercrombie had fifty thousand soldiers 
under his command. But the French general, the 
famous Marquis de Montcalm, possessed a great genius 
for war, and had something within him, that taught him 
how battles were to be won. 

At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed 
commander-in-chief of all the British forces in America. 
He was a man of ability, and a skilful soldier. A plan 
was now formed for accomplishing that object, which 
had so long been the darling wish of the New Eng¬ 
landers, and which their fathers had so many times 
attempted. This was the conquest of Canada. 

Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from 
different quarters. One of the three, commanded by 
General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake Ontario, and 
proceed to Montreal. The second, at the head of which 
was Sir Jeffrey Amherst himself, was destined to reach 
the River St. Lawrence, by the way of Lake Champlain, 
and then go down the river to meet the third army. 
This last, led by General Wolfe, was to enter the St. 
Lawrence from the sea, and ascend the river to Quebec. 
It is to Wolfe and his army that England owes one of 
the most splendid triumphs ever written in her history. 

Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and told 
how Wolfe led his soldiers up a rugged and lofty preci¬ 
pice that rose from the shore of the river to the plain on 
which the city stood. This bold adventure was achieved 
in the darkness of night. At daybreak, tidings were 
carried to the Marquis de Montcalm, that the English 
army was waiting to give him battle on the plains of 
Abraham. This brave French general ordered his 
drums to strike up, and immediately marched to en¬ 
counter Wolfe. 

He marched to his own death. The battle was the 
most fierce and terrible that had ever been fought in 
America. General Wolfe was at the head of his sol¬ 
diers, and while encouraging them onward, received a 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


109 

mortal wound. He reclined against a stone, in the 
agonies of death; but it seemed as if his spirit could 
not pass away, while the fight yet raged so doubtfully. 
Suddenly, a shout came pealing across the battle-field 
— “ They flee! they flee! ” and for a moment, Wolfe 
lifted his languid head. “Who flee?” he inquired. 
“The French,” replied an officer. “Then I die satis¬ 
fied ! ” said Wolfe, and expired in the arms of victory. 

“ If ever a warrior’s death were glorious, Wolfe’s was 
so ! ” said Grandfather ; and his eye kindled, though he 
was a man of peaceful thoughts, and gentle spirit. 
“ His lifeblood streamed to baptize the soil which he 
had added to the dominion of Britain ! His dying breath 
was mingled with his army’s shout of victory ! ” 

“ Oh, it was a good death to die ! ” cried Charley, with 
glistening eyes. “ Was it not a good death, Laurence ? ” 
Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned within 
him, as the picture of Wolfe, dying on the blood-stained 
field of victory, arose to his imagination; and yet, he 
had a deep inward consciousness, that, after all, there 
was a truer glory than could thus be won. 

“ There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe’s 
victory,” resumed Grandfather; “ but we may consider 
the Old French War as having terminated with this great 
event. The treaty of peace, however, was not signed 
until 1763. The terms of the treaty were very disad¬ 
vantageous to the French; for all Canada, and all Aca¬ 
dia, and the island of Cape Breton, in short, all the 
territories that France and England had been fighting 
about, for nearly a hundred years — were surrendered 
to the English.” 

“So, now, at last,” said Laurence, “New England 
had gained her wish. Canada was taken! ” 

“ And now there was nobody to fight with, but the 
Indians,” said Charley. 

Grandfather mentioned two other important events. 
The first was the great fire of Boston, in 1760, when the 
glare from nearly three hundred buildings, all in flames 
at once, shone through the windows of the Province 
House, and threw a fierce lustre upon the gilded foliage 


I IO 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


and lion’s head of our old chair. The second event was 
the proclamation, in the same year, of George the Third 
as king of Great Britain. The blast of the trumpet 
sounded from the balcony of the Town House, and 
awoke the echoes far and wide, as if to challenge all 
mankind to dispute King George’s title. 

Seven times, as the successive monarchs of Britain 
ascended the throne, the trumpet-peal of proclamation 
had been heard by those who sat in our venerable chair. 
But when the next king put on his father’s crown, no 
trumpet-peal proclaimed it to New England! Long 
before that day, America had shaken off the royal 
government. 


CHAPTER X 


N OW that Grandfather had fought through the Old 
French War, in which our chair made no very 
distinguished figure, he thought it high time to tell the 
children some of the more private history of that praise¬ 
worthy old piece of furniture. 

“In 1757,” said Grandfather, “after Shirley had 
been summoned to England, Thomas Pownall was 
appointed governor of Massachusetts. He was a gay 
and fashionable English gentleman, who had spent 
much of his life in London, but had a considerable 
acquaintance with America. The new governor ap¬ 
pears to have taken no active part in the war that 
was going on; although, at one period, he talked of 
marching against the enemy, at the head of his com¬ 
pany of cadets. But, on the whole, he probably con¬ 
cluded that it was more befitting a governor to remain 
quietly in our chair, reading the newspapers and official 
documents.” 

“ Did the people like Pownall ? ” asked Charley. 

“ They found no fault with him,” replied Grandfather. 
“ It was no time to quarrel with the governor, when the 
utmost harmony was required, in order to defend the 
country against the French. But Pownall did not re¬ 
main long in Massachusetts. In 1759, he was sent to 
be governor of South Carolina. In thus exchanging 
one government for another, I suppose he felt no 
regret, except at the necessity of leaving Grandfather’s 
chair behind him.” 

“ He might have taken it to South Carolina,” observed 
Clara. 

“ It appears to me,” said Laurence, giving the rein 
to his fancy, “ that the fate of this ancient chair was, 
somehow or other, mysteriously connected with the 
fortunes of old Massachusetts. If Governor Pownall 

in 


I 12 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


had put it aboard the vessel in which he sailed for 
South Carolina, she would probably have lain wind- 
bound in Boston harbor. It was ordained that the 
chair should not be taken away. Don’t you think so, 
Grandfather ? ” 

“ It was kept here for Grandfather and me to sit in 
together,” said little Alice, “ and for Grandfather to tell 
stories about.” 

“ And Grandfather is very glad of such a companion, 
and such a theme,” said the old gentleman, with a smile. 
“Well, Laurence, if our oaken chair, like the wooden 
Palladium of Troy, was connected with the country’s 
fate, yet there appears to have been no supernatural 
obstacle to its removal from the Province House. In 
1760, Sir Francis Bernard, who had been governor of 
New Jersey, was appointed to the same office in Mas¬ 
sachusetts. He looked at the old chair, and thought 
it quite too shabby to keep company with a new set of 
mahogany chairs, and an aristocratic sofa, which had 
just arrived from London. He therefore ordered it to 
be put away in the garret.” 

The children were loud in their exclamations against 
this irreverent conduct of Sir Francis Bernard. But 
Grandfather defended him, as well as he could. He 
observed, that it was then thirty years since the chair 
had been beautified by Governor Belcher. Most of the 
gilding was worn off by the frequent scourings which 
it had undergone, beneath the hands of a black slave. 
The damask cushion, once so splendid, was now 
squeezed out of all shape, and absolutely in tatters, 
so many were the ponderous gentlemen who had de¬ 
posited their weight upon it, during these thirty years. 

Moreover, at a council held by the Earl of London 
with the governors of New England, in 1757, his lord- 
ship, in a moment of passion, had kicked over the chair 
with his military boot. By this unprovoked and unjusti¬ 
fiable act, our venerable friend had suffered a fracture 
of one of its rungs. 

“But,” said Grandfather, “our chair, after all, was 
not destined to spend the remainder of its days in the 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


ll 3 


inglorious obscurity of a garret. Thomas Hutchinson, 
lieutenant-governor of the province, was told of Sir 
Francis Bernard’s design. This gentleman was more 
familiar with the history of New England than any 
other man alive. He knew all the adventures and 
vicissitudes through which the old chair had passed, 
and could have told, as accurately as your own Grand¬ 
father, who were the personages that had occupied it. 
Often, while visiting at the Province House, he had 
eyed the chair with admiration, and felt a longing 
desire to become the possessor of it. He now waited 
upon Sir Francis Bernard, and easily obtained leave to 
carry it home.” 

“ And I hope,” said Clara, “ he had it varnished and 
gilded anew.” 

“No,” answered Grandfather. “What Mr. Hutchin¬ 
son desired was to restore the chair, as much as possible, 
to its original aspect, such as it had appeared, when it 
was first made out of the Earl of Lincoln’s oak-tree. 
For this purpose he ordered it to be well scoured with 
soap and sand and polished with wax, and then provided 
it with a substantial leather cushion. When all was 
completed to his mind, he sat down in the old chair, and 
began to write his ‘ History of Massachusetts.’ ” 

“ Oh, that was a bright thought in Mr. Hutchinson ! ” 
exclaimed Laurence. “And, no doubt, the dim figures 
of the former possessors of the chair flitted around him, 
as he wrote, and inspired him with a knowledge of all 
that they had done and suffered while on earth.” 

“Why, my dear Laurence,” replied Grandfather, smil¬ 
ing, “ if Mr. Hutchinson was favored with any such 
extraordinary inspiration, he made but a poor use of it 
in his History; for a duller piece of composition never 
came from any man’s pen. However, he was accurate, 
at least, though far from possessing the brilliancy or 
philosophy of Mr. Bancroft.” 

“ But if Hutchinson knew the history of the chair,” 
rejoined Laurence, “ his heart must have been stirred 
by it.” 

“ It must, indeed,” said Grandfather. “ It would be 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


114 

entertaining and instructive at the present day, to im¬ 
agine what were Mr. Hutchinson’s thoughts as he looked 
back upon the long vista of events with which this chair 
was so remarkably connected.” 

And Grandfather allowed his fancy to shape out an 
image of Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson, sitting in an 
evening reverie by his fireside, and meditating on the 
changes that had slowly passed around the chair. 

A devoted monarchist, Hutchinson would heave no 
sigh for the subversion of the original republican gov¬ 
ernment, the purest that the world had seen, with which 
the colony began its existence. While reverencing the 
grim and stern old Puritans as the founders of his native 
land, he would not wish to recall them from their graves, 
nor to awaken again that king-resisting spirit, which he 
imagined to be laid asleep with them forever. Win- 
throp, Dudley, Bellingham, Endicott, Leverett, and 
Bradstreet! All these had had their day. Ages might 
come and go, but never again would the people’s suf¬ 
frages place a republican governor in their ancient Chair 
of State! 

Coming down to the epoch of the second charter, 
Hutchinson thought of the ship-carpenter Phipps, spring¬ 
ing from the lowest of the people, and attaining to the 
loftiest station in the land. But he smiled to perceive 
that this governor’s example would awaken no turbulent 
ambition in the lower orders, for it was a king’s gracious 
boon alone that made the ship-carpenter a ruler. Hutch¬ 
inson rejoiced to mark the gradual growth of an aris¬ 
tocratic class, to whom the common people, as in duty 
bound, were learning humbly to resign the honors, 
emoluments, and authority of state. He saw, —or else 
deceived himself, — that, throughout this epoch, the peo¬ 
ple’s disposition to self-government had been growing 
weaker, through long disuse, and now existed only as a 
faint traditionary feeling. 

The lieutenant-governor’s reverie had now come down 
to the period at which he himself was sitting in the his¬ 
toric chair. He endeavored to throw his glance forward, 
over the coming years. There, probably, he saw visions 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


*5 


of hereditary rank, for himself and other aristocratic 
colonists. He saw the fertile fields of New England 
portioned out among a few great landholders, and 
descending by entail from generation to generation. 
He saw the people a race of tenantry, dependent on 
their lords. He saw stars, garters, coronets, and castles. 

“ But,” added Grandfather, turning to Laurence, “ the 
lieutenant-governor’s castles were built nowhere but 
among the red embers of the fire, before which he was 
sitting. And, just as he had constructed a baronial 
residence for himself and his posterity, the fire rolled 
down upon the hearth, and crumbled it to ashes! ” 

Grandfather now looked at his watch, which hung 
within a beautiful little ebony Temple, supported by 
four Ionic columns. He then laid his hand on the 
golden locks of little Alice, whose head had sunk down 
upon the arm of our illustrious chair. 

“To bed, to bed, dear child! ” said he. “Grandfather 
has put you to sleep, already, by his stories about these 
Famous Old People.” 


PART III 


CHAPTER I 

O N the evening of New Year’s day, Grandfather was 
walking to and fro, across the carpet, listening to 
the rain which beat hard against the curtained windows. 
The riotous blast shook the casement, as if a strong man 
were striving to force his entrance into the comfortable 
room. With every puff of the wind, the fire leaped 
upward from the hearth, laughing and rejoicing at the 
shrieks of the wintry storm. 

Meanwhile, Grandfather’s chair stood in its custom¬ 
ary place by the fireside. The bright blaze gleamed 
upon the fantastic figures of its oaken back, and shone 
through the open-work, so that a complete pattern was 
thrown upon the opposite side of the room. Sometimes, 
for a moment or two, the shadow remained immovable, 
as if it were painted on the wall. Then, all at once, it 
began to quiver, and leap, and dance, with a frisky 
motion. Anon, seeming to remember that these antics 
were unworthy of such a dignified and venerable chair, 
it suddenly stood still. But soon it began to dance 
anew. 

“ Only see how Grandfather’s chair is dancing! ” 
cried little Alice. 

And she ran to the wall, and tried to catch hold of 
the flickering shadow; for to children of five years old, 
a shadow seems almost as real as a substance. 

“ I wish,” said Clara, “ Grandfather would sit down 
in the chair, and finish its history.” 

If the children had been looking at Grandfather, 
they would have noticed that he paused in his walk 
across the room, when Clara made this remark. The 
116 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


117 

kind old gentleman was ready and willing to resume 
his stories of departed times. But he had resolved to 
wait till his auditors should request him to proceed, in 
order that they might find the instructive history of the 
chair a pleasure, and not a task. 

“ Grandfather,” said Charley, “ I am tired to death of 
this dismal rain, and of hearing the wind roar in the 
chimney. I have had no good time all day. It would 
be better to hear stories about the chair, than to sit 
doing nothing, and thinking of nothing.” 

To say the truth, our friend Charley was very much 
out of humor with the storm, because it had kept him 
all day within doors, and hindered him from making a 
trial of a splendid sled, which Grandfather had given 
him for a New Year’s gift. As all sleds, nowadays, 
must have a name, the one in question had been hon¬ 
ored with the title of Grandfather’s Chair, which was 
painted in golden letters, on each of the sides. Char¬ 
ley greatly admired the construction of the new vehi¬ 
cle, and felt certain that it would outstrip any other 
sled that ever dashed adown the long slopes of the 
Common. 

As for Laurence, he happened to be thinking, just at 
this moment, about the history of the chair. Kind old 
Grandfather had made him a present of a volume of 
engraved portraits, representing the features of emi¬ 
nent and famous people of all countries. Among them 
Laurence found several who had formerly occupied our 
chair, or been connected with its adventures. While 
Grandfather walked to and fro across the room, the 
imaginative boy was gazing at the historic chair. He 
endeavored to summon up the portraits which he had 
seen in his volume, and to place them, like living figures, 
in the empty seat. 

“ The old chair has begun another year of its exist¬ 
ence, to-day,” said Laurence. “ We must make haste, 
or it will have a new history to be told before we finish 
the old one.” 

“ Yes, my children,” replied Grandfather, with a 
smile and a sigh, “another year has been added to 


118 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

those of the two centuries, and upward, which have 
passed since the Lady Arbella brought this chair over 
from England. It is three times as old as your Grand¬ 
father; but a year makes no impression on its oaken 
frame, while it bends the old man nearer and nearer to 
the earth; so let me go on with my stories while I 
may.” 

Accordingly, Grandfather came to the fireside, and 
seated himself in the venerable chair. The lion’s head 
looked down with a grimly good-natured aspect, as the 
children clustered around the old gentleman’s knees. 
It almost seemed as if a real lion were peeping over the 
back of the chair, and smiling at the‘group of auditors, 
with a sort of lion-like complaisance. Little Alice, 
whose fancy often inspired her with singular ideas, 
exclaimed that the lion’s head was nodding at her, and 
that it looked as if it were going to open its wide jaws 
and tell a story. 

But, as the lion’s head appeared to be in no haste to 
speak, and as there was no record or tradition of its 
having spoken, during the whole existence of the chair, 
Grandfather did not consider it worth while to wait. 


CHAPTER II 


C HARLEY, my boy,” said Grandfather, “ do you 
remember who was the last occupant of the 
chair ? ” 

“ It was Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson,” answered 
Charley. “ Sir Francis Bernard, the new governor, had 
given him the chair, instead of putting it away in the 
garret of the Province House. And when we took leave 
of Hutchinson, he was sitting by his fireside, and think¬ 
ing of the past adventures of the chair, and of what was 
to come.” 

“Very well,” said Grandfather; “and you recollect 
that this was in 1763, or thereabouts, at the close of 
the Old French War. Now, that you may fully compre¬ 
hend the remaining adventures of the chair, I must make 
some brief remarks on the situation and character of the 
New England colonies at this period.” 

So Grandfather spoke of the earnest loyalty of our 
fathers during the Old French War, and after the con¬ 
quest of Canada had brought that war to a triumphant 
close. 

The people loved and reverenced the king of England, 
even more than if the ocean had not rolled its waves 
between him and them; for, at the distance of three 
thousand miles, they could not discover his bad qualities 
and imperfections. Their love was increased by the 
dangers which they had encountered in order to heighten 
his glory and extend his dominion. Throughout the 
war, the American colonists had fought side by side 
with the soldiers of Old England; and nearly thirty 
thousand young men had laid down their lives for the 
honor of King George. And the survivors loved him 
the better, because they had done and suffered so much 
for his sake. 


120 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


But, there were some circumstances, that caused 
America to feel more independent of England than at 
an earlier period. Canada and Acadia had now become 
British provinces ; and our fathers were no longer afraid 
of the bands of French and Indians, who used to assault 
them in old times. For a century and a half this had 
been the great terror of New England. Now, the old 
French soldier was driven from the north forever. And 
even had it been otherwise, the English colonies were 
growing so populous and powerful, that they might have 
felt fully able to protect themselves without any help 
from England. 

There were thoughtful and sagacious men, who began 
to doubt whether a great country like America would 
always be content to remain under the government of 
an island three thousand miles away. This was the more 
doubtful, because the English Parliament had long ago 
made latvs which were intended to be very beneficial to 
England, at the expense of America. By these laws, 
the colonists were forbidden to manufacture articles for 
their own use, or to carry on trade with any nation but 
the English. 

“Now,” continued Grandfather, “if King George the 
Third and his counsellors had considered these things 
wisely they would have taken another course than they 
did. But, when they saw how rich and populous the 
colonies had grown, their first thought was, how they 
might make more profit out of them than heretofore. 
England was enormously in debt, at the close of the Old 
French War, and it was pretended, that this debt had 
been contracted for the defence of the American colonies, 
and that therefore a part of it ought to be paid by them.” 

“ Why, this was nonsense,” exclaimed Charley ; “ did 
not our fathers spend their lives, and their money too, to 
get Canada for King George ? ” 

“ True, they did,” said Grandfather ; “ and they told 
the English rulers so. But the king and his ministers 
would not listen to good advice. In 1765, the British 
Parliament passed a Stamp Act.” 

“ What was that ? ” inquired Charley. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


I 2 I 


“ The Stamp Act,” replied Grandfather, “ was a law 
by which all deeds, bonds, and other papers of the same 
kind, were ordered to be marked with the king’s stamp; 
and without this mark, they were declared illegal and 
void. Now, in order to get a blank sheet of paper, with 
the king’s stamp upon it, people were obliged to pay 
three pence more than the actual value of the paper. 
And this extra sum of three pence was a tax, and was 
to be paid into the king’s treasury.” 

“ I am sure three pence was not worth quarrelling 
about! ” remarked Clara. 

“ It was not for three pence, nor for any amount of 
money, that America quarrelled with England,” replied 
Grandfather; “ it was for a great principle. The colo¬ 
nists were determined not to be taxed, except by their 
own representatives. They said that neither the king 
and Parliament, nor any other power on earth, had a 
right to take their money out of their pockets, unless 
they freely gave it. And, rather than pay three pence 
when it was unjustly demanded, they resolved to sacri¬ 
fice all the wealth of the country, and their lives along 
with it. They therefore made a most stubborn resistance 
to the Stamp Act.” 

“ That was noble ! ” exclaimed Laurence. “ I under¬ 
stand how it was. If they had quietly paid the tax of 
three pence, they would have ceased to be freemen, and 
would have become tributaries of England. And so 
they contended about a great question of right and 
wrong, and put everything at stake for it.” 

“You are right, Laurence,” said Grandfather; “and 
it was really amazing and terrible to see what a change 
came over the aspect of the people, the moment the 
English Parliament had passed this oppressive act. The 
former history of our chair, my children, has given you 
some idea of what a harsh, unyielding, stern set of men 
the old Puritans were. For a good many years back, 
however, it had seemed as if these characteristics were 
disappearing. But no sooner did England offer wrong to 
the colonies, than the descendants of the early settlers 
proved that they had the same kind of temper as their 


122 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


forefathers. The moment before, New England appeared 
like an humble and loyal subject of the crown; the next 
instant, she showed the grim, dark features of an old 
king-resisting Puritan.” 

Grandfather spoke briefly of the public measures that 
were taken in opposition to the Stamp Act. As this 
law affected all the American colonies alike, it naturally 
led them to think of consulting together in order to pro¬ 
cure its repeal. For this purpose, the legislature of 
Massachusetts proposed that delegates from every colony 
should meet in Congress. Accordingly nine colonies, 
both northern and southern, sent delegates to the city 
of New York. 

“ And did they consult about going to war with Eng¬ 
land ? ” asked Charley. 

“ No, Charley,” answered Grandfather; “a great deal 
of talking was yet to be done, before England and 
America could come to blows. The Congress stated 
the rights and the grievances of the colonists. They 
sent an humble petition to the king, and a memorial to 
the Parliament, beseeching that the Stamp Act might 
be repealed. This was all that the delegates had it in 
their power to do.” 

“ They might as well have staid at home, then,” said 
Charley. 

“ By no means,” replied Grandfather. “ It was a 
most important and memorable event — this first coming 
together of the American people, by their representa¬ 
tives from the north and south. If England had been 
wise, she would have trembled at the first word that 
was spoken in such an assembly ! ” 

These remonstrances and petitions, as Grandfather 
observed, were the work of grave, thoughtful, and pru¬ 
dent men. Meantime, the young and hot-headed people 
went to work in their own way. It is probable that the 
petitions of Congress would have had little or no effect 
on the British statesmen, if the violent deeds of the 
American people had not shown how much excited the 
people were. Liberty Tree was soon heard of in 
England. 



GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


12 3 


“ What was Liberty Tree ? ” inquired Clara. 

“ It was an old elm-tree,” answered Grandfather, “which 
stood near the corner of Essex Street, opposite the 
Boylston market. Under the spreading branches of 
this great tree, the people used to assemble, whenever 
they wished to express their feelings and opinions. 
Thus, after a while, it seemed as if the liberty of the 
country was connected with Liberty Tree.” 

“ It was glorious fruit for a tree to bear,” remarked 
Laurence. 

“ It bore strange fruit sometimes,” said Grandfather. 
“One morning in August, 1765, two figures were found 
hanging on the sturdy branches of Liberty Tree. They 
were dressed in square-skirted coats and smallclothes; 
and, as their wigs hung down over their faces, they 
looked like real men. One was intended to represent 
the Earl of Bute, who was supposed to have advised the 
king to tax America. The other was meant for the 
effigy of Andrew Oliver, a gentleman belonging to one 
of the most respectable families in Massachusetts.” 

“ What harm had he done ? ” inquired Charley. 

“ The king had appointed him to be distributer of the 
stamps,” answered Grandfather. “ Mr. Oliver would 
have made a great deal of money by this business. But 
the people frightened him so much by hanging him in 
effigy, and afterwards by breaking into his house, that 
he promised to have nothing to do with the stamps. 
And all the king’s friends throughout America were 
compelled to make the same promise.” 


CHAPTER III 


“ T IEUTENANT-GOVERNOR HUTCHINSON,” 

JLrf continued Grandfather, “ now began to be unquiet 
in our old chair. He had formerly been much respected 
and beloved by the people, and had often proved him¬ 
self a friend to their interests. But the time was come, 
when he could not be a friend to the people, without 
ceasing to be a friend to the king. It was pretty gener¬ 
ally understood, that Hutchinson would act according 
to the king’s wishes, right or wrong, like most of the 
other gentlemen who held offices under the crown. 
Besides, as he was brother-in-law of Andrew Oliver, 
the people now felt a particular dislike to him.” 

“ I should think,” said Laurence, “ as Mr. Hutchin¬ 
son had written the history of our Puritan forefathers, 
he would have known what the temper of the people 
was, and so have taken care not to wrong them.” 

“ He trusted in the might of the king of England,” 
replied Grandfather, “and thought himself safe under 
the shelter of the throne. If no dispute had arisen 
between the king and the people, Hutchinson would 
have had the character of a wise, good, and patriotic 
magistrate. But, from the time that he took part against 
the rights of his country, the people’s love and respect 
were turned to scorn and hatred ; and he never had 
another hour of peace.” 

In order to show what a fierce and dangerous spirit 
was now aroused among the inhabitants, Grandfather 
related a passage from history, which we shall call 

The Hutchinson Mob 

On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, 1765, 
a bonfire was kindled in King Street. It flamed high 
upward, and threw a ruddy light over the front of the 
124 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


I2 5 


Town House, on which was displayed a carved repre- 
sentation of the royal arms. The gilded vane of the 
cupola glittered in the blaze. The kindling of this 
bonfire was the well-known signal for the populace of 
Boston to assemble in the street. 

Before the tar-barrels, of which the bonfire was made, 
were half burnt out, a great crowd had come together. 
They were chiefly laborers and seafaring men, together 
with many young apprentices, and all those idle people 
about town who are ready for any kind of mischief. 
Doubtless some school-boys were among them. 

While these rough figures stood round the blazing 
bonfire, you might hear them speaking bitter words 
against the high officers of the province. Governor 
Bernard, Hutchinson, Oliver, Storey, Hallowell, and 
other men whom King George delighted to honor, were 
reviled as traitors to the country. Now and then, per¬ 
haps, an officer of the crown passed along the street, 
wearing the gold-laced hat, white wig, and embroidered 
waistcoat, which were the fashion of the day. But, 
when the people beheld him, they set up a wild and 
angry howl, and their faces had an evil aspect, which 
was made more terrible by the flickering blaze of the 
bonfire. 

“ I should like to throw the traitor right into that 
blaze ! ” perhaps one fierce rioter would say. 

“Yes, and all his brethren, too!” another might 
reply; “and the governor and old Tommy Hutchinson 
in the hottest of it! ” 

“And the Earl of Bute along with them,” muttered a 
third; “ and burn the whole pack of them under King 
George’s nose ! No matter if it singed him ! ” 

Some such expressions as these, either shouted aloud, 
or muttered under the breath, were doubtless heard in 
King Street. The mob, meanwhile, were growing 
fiercer and fiercer, and seemed ready even to set the 
town on fire, for the sake of burning the king’s friends 
out of house and home. And yet, angry as they were, 
they sometimes broke into a loud roar of laughter, as 
if mischief and destruction were their sport. 


126 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


But we must now leave the rioters for a time, and 
take a peep into the lieutenant-governor’s splendid man¬ 
sion. It was a large brick house, decorated with Ionic 
pilasters, and stood in Garden Court Street, near the 
North Square. 

While the angry mob in King Street were shouting 
his name, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat quietly 
in Grandfather’s chair, unsuspicious of the evil that was 
about to fall upon his head. His beloved family were 
in the room with him. He had thrown off his embroid¬ 
ered coat and powdered wig, and had on a loose flowing 
gown and purple velvet cap. He had likewise laid 
aside the cares of state, and all the thoughts that had 
wearied and perplexed him throughout the day. 

Perhaps, in the enjoyment of his home, he had for¬ 
gotten all about the Stamp Act, and scarcely remem¬ 
bered that there was a king, across the ocean, who had 
resolved to make tributaries of the New Englanders. 
Possibly, too, he had forgotten his own ambition, and 
would not have exchanged his situation, at that moment, 
to be governor, or even a lord. 

The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a 
handsome room, well provided with rich furniture. On 
the walls hung the pictures of Hutchinson’s ancestors, 
who had been eminent men in their day, and were hon¬ 
orably remembered in the history of the country. Every 
object served to mark the residence of a rich, aristo¬ 
cratic gentleman, who held himself high above the 
common people, and could have nothing to fear from 
them. In a corner of the room, thrown carelessly upon 
a chair, were the scarlet robes of the chief justice. 
This high office, as well'as those of lieutenant-governor, 
counsellor, and judge of probate, was filled by Hutch¬ 
inson. 

Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of such 
a great and powerful personage as now sat in Grand¬ 
father’s chair ? 

The lieutenant-governor’s favorite daughter sat by his 
side. She leaned on the arm of our great chair, and 
looked up affectionately into her father’s face, rejoicing to 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


127 


perceive that a quiet smile was on his lips. But suddenly 
a shade came across her countenance. She seemed to 
listen attentively, as if to catch a distant sound. 

“ What is the matter, my child ? ” inquired Hutchin¬ 
son. “ Father, do you not hear a tumult in the street ? ” 
said she. 

The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears were 
duller than those of his daughter; he could hear nothing 
more terrible than the sound of a summer breeze, sigh¬ 
ing among the tops of the elm-trees. 

“ No, foolish child ! ” he replied, playfully patting her 
cheek. “ There is no tumult. Our Boston mobs are 
satisfied with what mischief they have already done. 
The king’s friends need not tremble.” 

So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful 
meditations, and again forgot that there were any 
troubles in the world. But his family were alarmed, 
and could not help straining their ears to catch the 
slightest sound. More and more distinctly they heard 
shouts, and then the trampling of many feet. While 
they were listening, one of the neighbors rushed breath¬ 
less into the room. 

“A mob! — a terrible mob!” cried he; “they have 
broken into Mr. Storey’s house, and into Mr. Hallowell’s, 
and have made themselves drunk with the liquors in his 
cellar, and now they are coming hither, as wild as so 
many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor, for your life! 
for your life ! ” 

“ Father, dear father, make haste,” shrieked his 
children. 

But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He was 
an old lawyer; and he could not realize that the people 
would do anything so utterly lawless as to assault him 
in his peaceful home. He was one of King George’s 
chief officers; and it would be an insult and outrage 
upon the king himself, if the lieutenant-governor should 
suffer any wrong. 

“ Have no fears on my account,” said he; “I am per¬ 
fectly safe. The king’s name shall be my protection.” 

Yet he bade his family retire into one of the neighbor- 


128 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


ing houses. His daughter would have remained, but he 
forced her away. 

The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were now 
heard, close at hand. The sound was terrible, and struck 
Hutchinson with the same sort of dread as if an enraged 
wild beast had broken loose, and were roaring for its 
prey. He crept softly to the window. There he beheld 
an immense concourse of people, filling all the street, 
and rolling onward to his house. It was like a tempestu¬ 
ous flood, that had swelled beyond its bounds, and would 
sweep everything before it. Hutchinson trembled; he 
felt at that moment, that the wrath of the people was 
a thousand-fold more terrible than the wrath of a king. 

That was a moment when a loyalist and an aristocrat, 
like Hutchinson, might have learned how powerless are 
kings, nobles, and great men, when the low and humble 
range themselves against them. King George could do 
nothing for his servant now. Had King George been 
there, he could have done nothing for himself. If 
Hutchinson had understood this lesson, and remembered 
it, he need not, in after years, have been an exile from 
his native country, or finally have laid his bones in a dis¬ 
tant land. 

There was now a rush against the doors of the house. 
The people sent up a hoarse cry. At this instant, the 
lieutenant-governor’s daughter, whom he had supposed 
to be in a place of safety, ran into the room, and threw 
her arms around him. She had returned by a private 
entrance. 

“ Father, are you mad ! ” cried she. “ Will the king’s 
name protect you now ? Come with me, or they will 
have your life.” 

“ True,” muttered Hutchinson to himself; “ what 
care these roarers for the name of king? I must flee 
or they will trample me down, on the door of my own 
dwelling! ” 

Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their escape 
by the private passage, at the moment when the rioters 
broke into the house. The foremost of them rushed up 
the staircase, and entered the room which Hutchinson had 



“ HlO CICKl'T SOFTLY To THE WINDOW.” 













































































































































































































GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


129 


just quitted. There they beheld our good old chair, fac¬ 
ing them with quiet dignity, while the lion’s head seemed 
to move its jaws in the unsteady light of their torches. 
Perhaps the stately aspect of our venerable friend, which 
had stood firm through a century and a half of trouble, 
arrested them for an instant. But they were thrust for¬ 
ward by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown. 

Then began the work of destruction. The carved 
and polished mahogany tables were shattered with heavy 
clubs, and hewn to splinters with axes. The marble 
hearths and mantel-pieces were broken. The volumes 
of Hutchinson’s library, so precious to a studious man, 
were torn out of their covers, and the leaves sent flying out 
of the windows. Manuscripts, containing secrets of our 
country’s history, which are now lost forever, were scat¬ 
tered to the winds. 

The old ancestral portraits, whose fixed countenances 
looked down on the wild scene, were rent from the walls. 
The mob triumphed in their downfall and destruction, 
as if these pictures of Hutchinson’s forefathers had com¬ 
mitted the same offences as their descendant. A tall 
looking-glass, which had hitherto presented a reflection 
of the enraged and drunken multitude, was now smashed 
into a thousand fragments. We gladly dismiss the scene 
from the mirror of our fancy. 

Before morning dawned, the walls of the house were 
all that remained. The interior was a dismal scene of 
ruin. A shower pattered in at the broken windows, and 
when Hutchinson and his family returned, they stood 
shivering in the same room, where the last evening had 
seen them so peaceful and happy. 

“Grandfather,” said Laurence, indignantly, “if the 
people acted in this manner, they were not worthy of 
even so much liberty as the king of England was willing 
to allow them.” 

“ It was a most unjustifiable act, like many other 
popular movements at that time,” replied Grandfather. 
“But we must not decide against the justice of the peo¬ 
ple’s cause, merely because an excited mob was guilty 


130 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


of outrageous violence. Besides, all these things were 
done in the first fury of resentment. Afterwards, the 
people grew more calm, and were more influenced by 
the counsel, of those wise and good men who conducted 
them safely and gloriously through the Revolution.” 

Little Alice, with tears in her blue eyes, said that she 
hoped the neighbors had not let Lieutenant-Governor 
Hutchinson and his family be homeless in the street, 
but had taken them into their houses, and been kind to 
them. Cousin Clara, recollecting the perilous situation 
of our beloved chair, inquired what had become of it. 

“ Nothing was heard of our chair for some time after¬ 
wards,” answered Grandfather. “ One day in Septem¬ 
ber, the same Andrew Oliver, of whom I before told 
you, was summoned to appear at high noon, under Lib¬ 
erty Tree. This was the strangest summons that had 
ever been heard of; for it was issued in the name of 
the whole people, who thus took upon themselves the 
authority of a sovereign power. Mr. Oliver dared not 
disobey. Accordingly, at the appointed hour, he went, 
much against his will, to Liberty Tree.” 

Here Charley interposed a remark that poor Mr. Oli¬ 
ver found but little liberty under Liberty Tree. Grand¬ 
father assented. 

“ It was a stormy day,” continued he. “ The equi¬ 
noctial gale blew violently, and scattered the yellow 
leaves of Liberty Tree all along the street. Mr. Oliver’s 
wig was dripping with water-drops, and he probably 
looked haggard, disconsolate, and humbled to the earth. 
Beneath the tree, in Grandfather’s chair, — our own ven¬ 
erable chair, — sat Mr. Richard Dana, a justice of the 
peace. He administered an oath to Mr. Oliver, that he 
would never have anything to do with distributing the 
stamps. A vast concourse of people heard the oath, 
and shouted when it was taken.” 

“ There is something grand in this,” said Laurence. 
“ I like it, because the people seem to have acted with 
thoughtfulness and dignity; and this proud gentleman, 
one of his Majesty’s high officers, was made to feel that 
King George could not protect him in doing wrong.” 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l 3 l 

“ But it was a sad day for poor Mr. Oliver,” observed 
Grandfather. “ From his youth upward, it had prob¬ 
ably been the great principle of his life, to be faithful 
and obedient to the king. And now, in his old age, 
it must have puzzled and distracted him, to find the 
sovereign people setting up a claim to his faith and 
obedience.” 

Grandfather closed the evening’s conversation by say¬ 
ing that the discontent of America was so great, that, 
in 1766, the British Parliament was compelled to repeal 
the Stamp Act. The people made great rejoicings, but 
took care to keep Liberty Tree well pruned, and free 
from caterpillars and canker worms. They foresaw, 
that there might yet be occasion for them to assemble 
under its far-projecting shadow. 


CHAPTER IV 



HE next evening, Clara, who remembered that our 


1 chair had been left standing in the rain, under Lib¬ 
erty Tree, earnestly besought Grandfather to tell when 
and where it had next found shelter. Perhaps she was 
afraid that the venerable chair, by being exposed to the 
inclemency of a September gale, might get the rheuma¬ 
tism in its aged joints. 

“ The chair,” said Grandfather, “ after the ceremony 
of Mr. Oliver’s oath, appears to have been quite for¬ 
gotten by the multitude. Indeed, being much bruised 
and rather rickety, owing to the violent treatment it had 
suffered from the Hutchinson mob, most people would 
have thought that its days of usefulness were over. 
Nevertheless, it was conveyed away, under cover of the 
night, and committed to the care of a skilful joiner. He 
doctored our old friend so successfully, that, in the 
course of a few days, it made its appearance in the pub¬ 
lic room of the British Coffee House in King Street.” 

“ But why did not Mr. Hutchinson get possession of 
it again ? ” inquired Charley. 

“ I know not,” answered Grandfather, “ unless he con¬ 
sidered it a dishonor and disgrace to the chair to have 
stood under Liberty Tree. At all events, he suffered it 
to remain at the British Coffee House, which was the 
principal hotel in Boston. It could not possibly have 
found a situation, where it would be more in the midst 
of business and bustle, or would witness more important 
events, or be occupied by a greater variety of persons.” 

Grandfather went on to tell the proceedings of the 
despotic king and ministry of England, after the repeal 
of the Stamp Act. They could not bear to think, that 
their right to tax America should be disputed by the 
people. In the year 1767, therefore, they caused Par¬ 
liament to pass an act for laying a duty on tea, and some 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


*33 


other articles that were in general use. Nobody could 
now buy a pound of tea, without paying a tax to King 
George. This scheme was pretty craftily contrived; 
for the women of America were very fond of tea, and 
did not like to give up the use of it. 

But the people were as much opposed to this new act 
of Parliament, as they had been to the Stamp Act. 
England, however, was determined that they should sub¬ 
mit. In order to compel their obedience, two regiments, 
consisting of more than seven hundred British soldiers, 
were sent to Boston. They arrived in September, 1768, 
and were landed on Long Wharf. Thence they marched 
to the Common, with loaded muskets, fixed bayonets, 
and great pomp and parade. So now, at last, the free 
town of Boston was guarded and overawed by red¬ 
coats, as it had been in the days of old Sir Edmund 
Andros. 

In the month of November, more regiments arrived. 
There were now four thousand troops in Boston. The 
Common was whitened with their tents. Some of the 
soldiers were lodged in Faneuil Hall, which the inhabit¬ 
ants looked upon as a consecrated place, because it had 
been the scene of a great many meetings in favor of 
liberty. One regiment was placed in the Town House, 
which we now call the Old State House. The lower 
floor of this edifice had hitherto been used by the mer¬ 
chants as an exchange. In the upper stories were the 
chambers of the judges, the representatives, and the 
governor’s council. The venerable counsellors could not 
assemble to consult about the welfare of the province, 
without being challenged by sentinels, and passing 
among the bayonets of the British soldiers. 

Sentinels likewise were posted at the lodgings of the 
officers, in many parts of the town. When the inhabit¬ 
ants approached, they were greeted by the sharp ques¬ 
tion — “ Who goes there ? ” while the rattle of the 
soldier’s musket was heard, as he presented it against 
their breasts. There was no quiet, even on the Sabbath 
day. The pious descendants of the Puritans were 
shocked by the uproar of military music, the drum, fife, 


*34 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


and bugle drowning the holy organ peal and the voices 
of the singers. It would appear as if the British took 
every method to insult the feelings of the people. 

“Grandfather,” cried Charley, impatiently, “the 
people did not go to fighting half soon enough! These 
British red-coats ought to have been driven back to their 
vessels, the very moment they landed on Long Wharf.” 

“ Many a hot-headed young man said the same as you 
do, Charley,” answered Grandfather. “But the elder 
and wiser people saw that the time was not yet come. 
Meanwhile, let us take another peep at our old chair.” 

“Ah, it drooped its head I know,” said Charley, 
“ when it saw how the province was disgraced. Its old 
Puritan friends never would have borne such doings.” 

“The chair,” proceeded Grandfather, “was now con¬ 
tinually occupied by some of the high tories, as the king’s 
friends were called, who frequented the British Coffee 
House. Officers of the custom-house, too, which stood 
on the opposite side of King Street, often sat in the 
chair, wagging their tongues against John Hancock.” 

“Why against him?” asked Charley. 

“ Because he was a great merchant, and contended 
against paying duties to the king,” said Grandfather. 

“ Well, frequently, no doubt, the officers of the British 
regiments, when not on duty, used to fling themselves 
into the arms of our venerable chair. Fancy one of 
them, a red-nosed captain, in his scarlet uniform, play¬ 
ing with the hilt of his sword, and making a circle of his 
brother officers merry with ridiculous jokes at the ex¬ 
pense of the poor Yankees. And perhaps he would call 
for a bottle of wine or a steaming bowl of punch, and 
drink confusion to all rebels.” 

“ Our grave old chair must have been scandalized at 
such scenes,” observed Laurence. “The chair that had 
been the Lady Arbella’s, and which the holy Apostle 
Eliot had consecrated.” 

“ It certainly was little less than sacrilege,” replied 
Grandfather; “ but the time was coming, when even the 
churches, where hallowed pastors had long preached the 
word of God, were to be torn down or desecrated by 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l 3S 

the British troops. Some years passed, however, before 
such things were done.” 

Grandfather now told his auditors that, in 1769, Sir 
Francis Bernard went to England, after having been 
governor of Massachusetts ten years. He was a gentle¬ 
man of many good qualities, an excellent scholar, and a 
friend to learning. But he was naturally of an arbitrary 
disposition; and he had been bred at the University of 
Oxford, where young men were taught that the divine 
right of kings was the only thing to be regarded in 
matters of government. Such ideas were ill adapted 
to please the people of Massachusetts. They rejoiced to 
get rid of Sir Francis Bernard, but liked his successor, 
Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson, no better than him¬ 
self. 

About this period the people were much incensed at 
an act, committed by a person who held an office in the 
custom-house. Some lads, or young men, were snow¬ 
balling his windows. He fired a musket at them and 
killed a poor German boy, only eleven years old. This 
event made a great noise in town and country, and much 
increased the resentment that was already felt against 
the servants of the crown. 

“ Now, children,” said Grandfather, “ I wish to make 
you comprehend the position of the British troops in 
King Street. This is the same which we now call State 
Street. On the south side of the Town House, or Old 
State House, was what military men call a court of 
guard, defended by two brass cannons, which pointed 
directly at one of the doors of the above edifice. A 
large party of soldiers were always stationed in the 
court of guard. The custom-house stood at a little dis¬ 
tance down King Street, nearly where the Suffolk Bank 
now stands; and a sentinel was continually pacing be¬ 
fore its front.” 

“ I shall remember this, to-morrow,” said Charley; 
“ and I will go to State Street, so as to see exactly where 
the British troops were stationed.” 

“ And, before long,” observed Grandfather, “ I shall 
have to relate an event, which made King Street sadly 


136 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


famous on both sides of the Atlantic. The history of 
our chair will soon bring us to this melancholy business.” 

Here Grandfather described the state of things, 
which arose from the ill-will that existed between the 
inhabitants and the red-coats. The old and sober part 
of the town’s-people were very angry at the govern¬ 
ment for sending soldiers to overawe them. But those 
gray-headed men were cautious, and kept their thoughts 
and feelings in their own breasts, without putting them¬ 
selves in the way of the British bayonets. 

The younger people, however, could hardly be kept 
within such prudent limits. They reddened with wrath 
at the very sight of a soldier, and would have been will¬ 
ing to come to blows with them, at any moment. For 
it was their opinion, that every tap of a British drum 
within the peninsula of Boston, was an insult to the 
brave old town. 

“ It was sometimes the case,” continued Grandfather, 
“ that affrays happened between such wild young men 
as these, and small parties of the soldiers. No weapons 
had hitherto been used, except fists or cudgels. But, 
when men have loaded muskets in their hands, it is 
easy to foretell that they will soon be turned against the 
bosoms of those who provoke their anger.” 

“ Grandfather,” said little Alice, looking fearfully into 
his face, “ your voice sounds as though you were going 
to tell us something awful! ” 


CHAPTER V 


L ITTLE Alice, by her last remark, proved herself 
a good judge of what was expressed by the tones 
of Grandfather’s voice. He had given the above de¬ 
scription of the enmity between the town’s-people and 
the soldiers, in order to prepare the minds of his auditors 
for a very terrible event. It was one that did more to 
heighten the quarrel between England and America, 
than anything that had yet occurred. 

Without further preface, Grandfather began the 
story of 


The Boston Massacre 

It was now the 3d of March, 1770. The sunset music 
of the British regiments was heard, as usual, throughout 
the town. The shrill fife and rattling drum awoke the 
echoes in King Street, while the last ray of sunshine was 
lingering on the cupola of the Town House. And now, 
all the sentinels were posted. One of them marched up 
and down before the custom-house, treading a short 
path through the snow, and longing for the time when 
he would be dismissed to the warm fireside of the guard- 
room. Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting 
in our great chair, before the hearth of the British Coffee 
House. In the course of the evening, there were two or 
three slight commotions, which seemed to indicate that 
trouble was at hand. Small parties of young men stood 
at the corners of the streets, or walked along the narrow 
pavements. Squads of soldiers, who were dismissed 
from duty, passed by them, shoulder to shoulder, with 
the regular step which they had learned at the drill. 
Whenever these encounters took place, it appeared to 
be the object of the young men to treat the soldiers 
with as much incivility as possible. 

137 


138 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

“ Turn out, you lobster-backs! ” one would say. 
“ Crowd them off the side-walks! ” another would cry. 
“A red-coat has no right in Boston streets.” 

“ Oh, you rebel rascals ! ” perhaps the soldiers would 
reply, glaring fiercely at the young men. “ Some day 
or other, we ’ll make our way through Boston streets, at 
the point of the bayonet! ” 

Once or twice, such disputes as these brought on a 
scuffle; which passed off, however, without attracting 
much notice. About eight o’clock, for some unknown 
cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly. 

At the sound, many people ran out of their houses, 
supposing it to be an alarm of fire. But there were no 
flames to be seen; nor was there any smell of smoke in 
the clear frosty air; so that most of the townsmen went 
back to their own firesides, and sat talking with their 
wives and children about the calamities of the times. 
Others, who were younger and less prudent, remained 
in the streets; for there seems to have been a presenti¬ 
ment that some strange event was on the eve of taking 
place. 

Later in the evening, not far from nine o’clock, several 
young men passed by the Town House and walked down 
King Street. The sentinel was still on his post, in front 
of the custom-house, pacing to and fro, while, as he 
turned, a gleam of light, from some neighboring win¬ 
dow, glittered on the barrel of his musket. At no great 
distance were the barracks and the guard-house, where 
his comrades were probably telling stories of battle and 
bloodshed. 

Down towards the custom-house, as I told you, came 
a party of wild young men. When they drew near the 
sentinel, he halted on his post, and took his musket 
from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their 
breasts. 

“ Who goes there ? ” he cried, in the gruff, peremptory 
tones of a soldier’s challenge. 

The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they 
had a right to walk their own streets, without being 
accountable to a British red-coat, even though he chal- 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l 39 


lenged them in King George’s name. They made some 
rude answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or 
perhaps a scuffle. Other soldiers heard the noise, and 
ran hastily from the barracks, to assist their comrade. 
At the same time, many of the town’s-people rushed 
into King Street, by various avenues, and gathered in a 
crowd round about the custom-house. It seemed won¬ 
derful how such a multitude had started up, all of a 
sudden. 

The wrongs and insults, which the people had been 
suffering for many months, now kindled them into 
a rage. They threw snow-balls and lumps of ice at the 
soldiers. As the tumult grew louder, it reached the ears 
of Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immedi¬ 
ately ordered eight soldiers of the main guard to take 
their muskets and follow him. They marched across 
the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd, 
and pricking the town’s-people with their bayonets. 

A gentleman (it was Henry Knox, afterwards general 
of the American artillery) caught Captain Preston’s arm. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, sir,” exclaimed he, “ take heed 
what you do, or here will be bloodshed.” 

“ Stand aside ! ” answered Captain Preston, haughtily. 
“ Do not interfere, sir. Leave me to manage the 
affair.” 

Arriving at the sentinel’s post, Captain Preston drew 
up his men in a semicircle, with their faces to the crowd 
and their rear to the custom-house. When the people 
saw the officer, and beheld the threatening attitude with 
which the soldiers fronted them, their rage became 
almost uncontrollable. 

“ Fire, you lobster-backs ! ” bellowed some. 

“You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats,” cried 
others. 

“ Rush upon them ! ” shouted many voices. “ Drive 
the rascals to their barracks ! Down with them! Down 
with them ! Let them fire, if they dare! ” 

Amid the uproar, the soldiers stood glaring at the 
people, with the fierceness of men whose trade was to 
shed blood. 


140 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


Oh, what a crisis had now arrived ! Up to this very 
moment the angry feelings between England and Amer¬ 
ica might have been pacified. England had but to 
stretch out the hand of reconciliation, and acknowledge 
that she had hitherto mistaken her rights but would do 
so no more. Then, the ancient bonds of brotherhood 
would again have been knit together, as firmly as in old 
times. The habit of loyalty, which had grown as strong 
as instinct, was not utterly overcome. The perils 
shared, the victories won, in the Old French War, when 
the soldiers of the colonies fought side by side with 
their comrades from beyond the sea, were unforgotten 
yet. England was still that beloved country which the 
colonists called their home. King George, though he 
had frowned on America, was still reverenced as a 
father. 

But, should the king’s soldiers shed one drop of 
American blood, then it was a quarrel to the death. 
Never — never would America rest satisfied, until she 
had torn down the royal authority and trampled it in 
the dust. 

“ Fire, if you dare, villains! ” hoarsely shouted the 
people, while the muzzles of the muskets were turned 
upon them ; “ you dare not fire! ” 

They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled bayo¬ 
nets. Captain Preston waved his sword, and uttered a 
command which could not be distinctly heard, amid the 
uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. 
But his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal 
mandate — “ Fire ! ” The flash of their muskets lighted 
up the street, and the report rang loudly between the 
edifices. It was said, too, that the figure of a man with 
a cloth hanging down over his face, was seen to step 
into the balcony of the custom-house, and discharge a 
musket at the crowd. 

A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It rose 
heavily, as if it were loath to reveal the dreadful spec¬ 
tacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons of New England 
lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely wounded, 
were struggling to rise again. Others stirred not, nor 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


141 

groaned, for they were past all pain. Blood was stream¬ 
ing upon the snow; and that purple stain, in the midst 
of King Street, though it melted away in the next day’s 
sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people. 

Grandfather was interrupted by the violent sobs of 
little Alice. In his earnestness, he had neglected to 
soften down the narrative, so that it might not terrify 
the heart of this unworldly infant. Since Grandfather 
began the history of our chair, little Alice had listened 
to many tales of war. But, probably, the idea had 
never really impressed itself upon her mind, that men 
have shed the blood of their fellow-creatures. And now 
that this idea was forcibly presented to her, it affected 
the sweet child with bewilderment and horror. 

“ I ought to have remembered our dear little Alice,” 
said Grandfather reproachfully to himself. “ Oh, what 
a pity ! Her heavenly nature has now received its first 
impression of earthly sin and violence. Well, Clara, 
take her to bed, and comfort her. Heaven grant that 
she may dream away the recollection of the Boston 
Massacre! ” 

“Grandfather,” said Charley, when Clara and little 
Alice had retired, “did not the people rush upon the 
soldiers, and take revenge ? ” 

“ The town drums beat to arms,” replied Grandfather, 
“ the alarm bells rang, and an immense multitude rushed 
into King Street. Many of them had weapons in their 
hands. The British prepared to defend themselves. 
A whole regiment was drawn up in the street, expecting 
an attack; for the townsmen appeared ready to throw 
themselves upon the bayonets.” 

“ And how did it end ? ” asked Charley. 

“ Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot,” said 
Grandfather, “ and besought the people to have patience, 
promising that strict justice should be done. A day 
or two afterward, the British troops were withdrawn 
from town, and stationed at Castle William. Captain 
Preston and the eight soldiers were tried for murder. 
But none of them were found guilty. The judges told 


142 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


the jury that the insults and violence which had been of¬ 
fered to the soldiers justified them in firing at the mob.” 

“The Revolution,” observed Laurence, who had said 
but little during the evening, “was not such a calm, 
majestic movement as I supposed. I do not love to 
hear of mobs and broils in the street. These things 
were unworthy of the people, when they had such a 
great object to accomplish.” 

“ Nevertheless, the world has seen no grander move¬ 
ment than that of our Revolution, from first to last,” 
said Grandfather. “ The people, to a man, were full of 
a great and noble sentiment. True, there may be much 
fault to find with their mode of expressing this senti¬ 
ment ; but they knew no better — the necessity was 
upon them to act out their feelings, in the best manner 
they could. We must forgive what was wrong in their 
actions, and look into their hearts and minds for the 
honorable motives that impelled them.” 

“And I suppose,” said Laurence, “there were men 
who knew how to act worthily of what they felt.” 

“ There were many such,” replied Grandfather, “ and 
we will speak of some of them, hereafter.” 

Grandfather here made a pause. That night, Charley 
had a dream about the Boston Massacre, and thought 
that he himself was in the crowd, and struck down Cap¬ 
tain Preston with a great club. Laurence dreamed that 
he was sitting in our great chair, at the window of the 
British Coffee House, and beheld the whole scene which 
Grandfather had described. It seemed to him, in his 
dream, that if the town’s-people and the soldiers would 
but have heard him speak a single word, all the slaughter 
might have been averted. But there was such an uproar 
that it drowned his voice. 

The next morning, the two boys went together to State 
Street, and stood on the very spot where the first blood 
of the Revolution had been shed. The Old State House 
was still there, presenting almost the same aspect that it 
had worn on that memorable evening, one-and-seventy 
years ago. It is the sole remaining witness of the Boston 
Massacre. 


CHAPTER VI 


T HE next evening the astral lamp was lighted earlier 
than usual, because Laurence was very much en¬ 
gaged in looking over the collection of portraits which 
had been his New Year’s gift from Grandfather. 

Among them he found the features of more than one 
famous personage who had been connected with the ad¬ 
ventures of our old chair. Grandfather bade him draw 
the table nearer to the fireside; and they looked over the 
portraits together, while Clara and Charley likewise lent 
their attention. As for little Alice, she sat in Grand¬ 
father’s lap, and seemed to see the very men alive, whose 
faces were there represented. 

Turning over the volume, Laurence came to the por¬ 
trait of a stern, grim-looking man, in plain attire of much 
more modern fashion than that of the old Puritans. But 
the face might well have befitted one of those iron-hearted 
men. Beneath the portrait was the name of Samuel 
Adams. 

“He was a man of great note in all the doings that 
brought about the Revolution,” said Grandfather. “ His 
character was such, that it seemed as if one of the ancient 
Puritans had been sent back to earth, to animate the peo¬ 
ple’s hearts with the same abhorrence of tyranny, that 
had distinguished the earliest settlers. He was as reli¬ 
gious as they, as stern and inflexible, and as deeply imbued 
with democratic principles. He, better than any one 
else, may be taken as a representative of the people of 
New England, and of the spirit with which they engaged 
in the revolutionary struggle. He was a poor man, and 
earned his bread by an humble occupation; but with his 
tongue and pen, he made the king of England tremble 
on his throne. Remember him, my children, as one of 
the strong men of our country.” 

143 


144 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


“ Here is one whose looks show a very different char¬ 
acter,” observed Laurence, turning to the portrait of John 
Hancock. “ I should think, by his splendid dress and 
courtly aspect, that he was one of the king’s friends.” 

“There never was a greater contrast than between 
Samuel Adams and John Hancock,” said Grandfather. 
“ Yet they were of the same side in politics, and had 
an equal agency in the Revolution. Hancock was born 
to the inheritance of the largest fortune in New Eng¬ 
land. His tastes and habits were aristocratic. He loved 
gorgeous attire, a splendid mansion, magnificent furni¬ 
ture, stately festivals, and all that was glittering and 
pompous in external things. His manners were so 
polished, that there stood not a nobleman at the foot¬ 
stool of King George’s throne, who was a more skilful 
courtier than John Hancock might have been. Never¬ 
theless, he, in his embroidered clothes, and Samuel 
Adams, in his threadbare coat, wrought together in the 
cause of liberty. Adams acted from pure and rigid 
principle. Hancock, though he loved his country, yet 
thought quite as much of his own popularity as he did 
of the people’s rights. It is remarkable, that these two 
men, so very different as I describe them, were the only 
two exempted from pardon by the king’s proclamation.” 

On the next leaf of the book was the portrait of Gen¬ 
eral Joseph Warren. Charley recognized the name, 
and said that here was a greater man than either Han¬ 
cock or Adams. 

“Warren was an eloquent and able patriot,” replied 
Grandfather. “ He deserves a lasting memory for his 
zealous efforts in behalf of liberty. No man’s voice was 
more powerful in Faneuil Hall than Joseph Warren’s. 
If his death had not happened so early in the contest, 
he would probably have gained a high name as a 
soldier.” 

The next portrait was a venerable man who held his 
thumb under his chin, and, through his spectacles, 
appeared to be attentively reading a manuscript. 

“Here we see the most illustrious Boston boy that 
ever lived,” said Grandfather. “This is Benjamin 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


H5 

Franklin ! But I will not try to compress, into a few 
sentences, the character of the sage who, as a French¬ 
man expressed it, snatched the lightning from the sky, 
and the sceptre from the tyrant. Mr. Sparks must help 
you to the knowledge of Franklin.” 

The book likewise contained portraits of James Otis 
and Josiah Quincy. Both of them, Grandfather ob¬ 
served, were men of wonderful talents and true patriot¬ 
ism. Their voices were like the stirring tones of a 
trumpet, arousing the country to defend its freedom. 
Heaven seemed to have provided a greater number of 
eloquent men than had appeared at any other period, in 
order that the people might be fully instructed as to 
their wrongs, and the method of resistance. 

“ It is marvellous,” said Grandfather, “ to see how 
many powerful writers, orators, and soldiers started up, 
just at the time when they were wanted. There was a 
man for every kind of work. It is equally wonderful, 
that men of such different characters were all made to 
unite in the one object of establishing the freedom and 
independence of America. There was an overruling 
Providence above them.” 

“ Here was another great man,” remarked Laurence, 
pointing to the portrait of John Adams. 

“Yes; an earnest, warm-tempered, honest, and most 
able man,” said Grandfather. “At the period of which 
we are now speaking, he was a lawyer in Boston. He 
was destined, in after years, to be ruler over the whole 
American people, whom he contributed so much to 
form into a nation.” 

Grandfather here remarked, that many a New Eng¬ 
lander, who had passed his boyhood and youth in 
obscurity, afterward attained to a fortune, which he 
never could have foreseen, even in his most ambitious 
dreams. John Adams, the second president of the 
United States, and the equal of crowned kings, was 
once a schoolmaster and country lawyer. Hancock, 
the first signer of the Declaration of Independence, 
served his apprenticeship with a merchant. Samuel 
Adams, afterwards governor of Massachusetts, was a 


146 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

small tradesman and a tax-gatherer. General Warren 
was a physician, General Lincoln a farmer, and General 
Knox a bookbinder. General Nathaniel Greene, the 
best soldier, except Washington, in the revolutionary 
army, was a Quaker and a blacksmith. All these be¬ 
came illustrious men, and can never be forgotten in 
American history. 

“And any boy, who is born in America, may look 
forward to the same things,” said our ambitious friend 
Charley. 

After these observations, Grandfather drew the book 
of portraits towards him, and showed the children 
several British peers and members of Parliament, who 
had exerted themselves either for or against the rights of 
America. There were the Earl of Bute, Mr. Grenville, 
and Lord North. These were looked upon as deadly 
enemies to our country. 

Among the friends of. America was Mr. Pitt, after¬ 
ward Earl of Chatham, who spent so much of his 
wondrous eloquence in endeavoring to warn England of 
the consequences of her injustice. He fell down on the 
floor of the House of Lords, after uttering almost his 
dying words in defence of our privileges as freemen. 
There was Edmund Burke, one of the wisest men and 
greatest orators that ever the world produced. There 
was Colonel Barr6, who had been among our fathers, and 
knew that they had courage enough to die for their rights. 
There was Charles James Fox, who never rested until 
he had silenced our enemies in the House of Commons. 

“ It is very remarkable to observe how many of the 
ablest orators in the British Parliament were favorable 
to America,” said Grandfather. “We ought to remem¬ 
ber these great Englishmen with gratitude; for their 
speeches encouraged our fathers, almost as much as 
those of our own orators in Faneuil Hall and under 
Liberty Tree. Opinions which might have been re¬ 
ceived with doubt, if expressed only by a native American, 
were set down as true, beyond dispute, when they came 
from the lips of Chatham, Burke, Barre, or Fox.” 

“ But, Grandfather,” asked Laurence, “ were there no 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


147 

able and eloquent men in this country who took the 
part of King George ? ” 

“ There were many men of talent, who said what 
they could in defence of the king’s tyrannical proceed¬ 
ings,” replied Grandfather. “ But they had the worst 
side of the argument and therefore seldom said anything 
worth remembering. Moreover their hearts were faint 
and feeble; for they felt that the people scorned and 
detested them. They had no friends, no defence, except 
in the bayonets of the British troops. A blight fell 
upon all their faculties, because they were contending 
against the rights of their own native land.” 

“ What were the names of some of them ? ” inquired 
Charley. 

“Governor Hutchinson, Chief Justice Oliver, Judge 
Auchmuty, the Reverend Mather Byles and several 
other clergymen were among the most noted loyalists,” 
answered Grandfather. 

“ I wish the people had tarred and feathered every 
man of them! ” cried Charley. 

“ That wish is very wrong, Charley,” said Grand¬ 
father. “You must not think that there was no integ¬ 
rity and honor, except among those who stood up for 
the freedom of America. For aught I know, there was 
quite as much of these qualities on one side as on the 
other. Do you see nothing admirable in a faithful ad¬ 
herence to an unpopular cause ? Can you not respect 
that principle of loyalty, which made the royalists give 
up country, friends, fortune, everything, rather than be 
false to their king ? It was a mistaken principle; but 
many of them cherished it honorably, and were martyrs 
to it.” 

“ Oh, I was wrong ! ” said Charley, ingenuously. “ And 
I would risk my life, rather than one of those good old 
royalists should be tarred and feathered.” 

“ The time is now come when we may judge fairly of 
them,” continued Grandfather. “ Be the good and true 
men among them honored; for they were as much our 
countrymen as the patriots were. And, thank Heaven ! 
our country need not be ashamed of her sons — of most 


148 GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR 


of them, at least — whatever side they took in the 
revolutionary contest.” 

Among the portraits was one of King George the 
Third. Little Alice clapped her hands, and seemed 
pleased with the bluff good-nature of his physiognomy. 
But Laurence thought it strange that a man with such a 
face, indicating hardly a common share of intellect, 
should have had influence enough on human affairs, to 
convulse the world with war. Grandfather observed that 
this poor king had always appeared to him one of the 
most unfortunate persons that ever lived. He was so 
honest and conscientious, that if he had been only a 
private man, his life would probably have been blame¬ 
less and happy. But his was that worst of fortunes, to 
be placed in a station far beyond his abilities. 

“ And so,” said Grandfather, “ his life, while he re¬ 
tained what intellect Heaven had gifted him with, was 
one long mortification. At last, he grew crazed with 
care and trouble. For nearly twenty years, the monarch 
of England was confined as a madman. In his old age, 
too, God took away his eyesight; so that his royal palace 
was nothing to him but a dark, lonesome prison-house.” 


CHAPTER VII 


“/^\UR old chair,” resumed Grandfather, “did not 

V-/ now stand in the midst of a gay circle of British 
officers. The troops, as I told you, had been removed 
to Castle William, immediately after the Boston Mas¬ 
sacre. Still, however, there were many tories, custom¬ 
house officers, and Englishmen, who used to assemble 
in the British Coffee House, and talk over the affairs of 
the period. Matters grew worse and worse ; and in 1773, 
the people did a deed, which incensed the king and min¬ 
istry more than any of their former doings.” 

Grandfather here described the affair, which is known 
by the name of the Boston Tea Party. The Americans, 
for some time past, had left off importing tea, on account 
of the oppressive tax. The East India Company, in 
London, had a large stock of tea on hand, which they 
had expected to sell to the Americans, but could find no 
market for it. But, after a while, the government per¬ 
suaded this company of merchants to send the tea to 
America. 

“How odd it is,” observed Clara, “that the liberties 
of America should have had anything to do with a cup 
of tea! ” 

Grandfather smiled, and proceeded with his narra¬ 
tive. When the people of Boston heard that several 
cargoes of tea were coming across the Atlantic, they 
held a great many meetings at Faneuil Hall, in the Old 
South Church, and under Liberty Tree. In the midst 
of their debates, three ships arrived in the harbor with 
the tea on board. The people spent more than a fort¬ 
night in consulting what should be done. At last, on 
the 16th of December, 1773, they demanded of Gov¬ 
ernor Hutchinson that he should immediately send the 
ships back to England. 


149 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


150 

The governor replied that the ships must not leave 
the harbor, until the custom-house duties upon the tea 
should be paid. Now, the payment of these duties was 
the very thing against which the people had set their 
faces, because it was a tax unjustly imposed upon 
America by the English government. Therefore, in 
the dusk of the evening, as soon as Governor Hutchin¬ 
son’s reply was received, an immense crowd hastened to 
Griffin’s Wharf, where the tea-ships lay. The place is 
now called Liverpool Wharf. 

“When the crowd reached the wharf,” said Grand¬ 
father, “ they saw that a set of wild-looking figures 
were already on board of the ships. You would have 
imagined that the Indian warriors, of old times, had 
come back again; for they wore the Indian dress, and 
had their faces covered with red and black paint, like 
the Indians, when they go to war. These grim figures 
hoisted the tea chests on the decks of the vessels, 
broke them open, and threw all the contents into the 
harbor.” 

“ Grandfather,” said little Alice, “ I suppose Indians 
don’t love tea; else they would never waste it so.” 

“They were not real Indians, my child,” answered 
Grandfather. “ They were white men in disguise; be¬ 
cause a heavy punishment would have been inflicted on 
them, if the King’s officers had found who they were. 
But it was never known. From that day to this, 
though the matter has been talked of by all the world, 
nobody can tell the names of those Indian figures. 
Some people say that there were very famous men 
among them, who afterwards became governors and 
generals. Whether this be true I cannot tell.” 

When tidings of this bold deed were carried to Eng¬ 
land, King George was greatly enraged. Parliament 
immediately passed an act, by which all vessels were 
forbidden to take in or discharge their cargoes at the 
port of Boston. In this way, they expected to ruin all 
the merchants, and starve the poor people by depriving 
them of employment. At the same time, another act 
was passed, taking away many rights and privileges 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


I 5 I 

which had been granted in the charter of Massachu¬ 
setts. 

Governor Hutchinson, soon afterward, was sum¬ 
moned to England, in order that he might give his 
advice about the management of American affairs. Gen¬ 
eral Gage, an officer of the Old French War, and since 
commander-in-chief of the British forces in America, 
was appointed governor in his stead. One of his first 
acts was to make Salem, instead of Boston, the metrop¬ 
olis of Massachusetts, by summoning the General 
Court to meet there. 

According to Grandfather’s description, this was the 
most gloomy time that Massachusetts had ever seen. 
The people groaned under as heavy a tyranny as in the 
days of Sir Edmund Andros. Boston looked as if it 
were afflicted with some dreadful pestilence, — so sad 
were the inhabitants, and so desolate the streets. There 
was no cheerful hum of business. The merchants shut 
up their warehouses, and the laboring men stood idle 
about the wharves. But all America felt interested in 
the good town of Boston; and contributions were 
raised, in many places, for the relief of the poor inhab¬ 
itants. 

“ Our dear old chair! ” exclaimed Clara. “ How dis¬ 
mal it must have been now ! ” 

“ Oh,” replied Grandfather, “ a gay throng of officers 
had now come back to the British Coffee House; so 
that the old chair had no lack of mirthful company. 
Soon after General Gage became governor, a great 
many troops had arrived, and were encamped upon the 
Common. Boston was now a garrisoned and fortified 
town; for the general had built a battery across the 
neck, on the road to Roxbury, and placed guards for 
its defence. Everything looked as if a civil war were 
close at hand.” 

“ Did the people make ready to fight ? ” asked 
Charley. 

“ A continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia,” 
said Grandfather, “ and proposed such measures as 
they thought most conducive to the public good. A 


*5 2 


GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR 


provincial Congress was likewise chosen in Massachu¬ 
setts. They exhorted the people to arm and discipline 
themselves. A great number of minute men were 
enrolled. The Americans called them minute men, 
because they engaged to be ready to fight at a minute’s 
warning. The English officers laughed, and said that 
the name was a very proper one, because the minute 
men would run away the minute they saw the enemy. 
Whether they would fight or run, was soon to be 
proved.” 

Grandfather told the children, that the first open 
resistance offered to the British troops, in the province 
of Massachusetts, was at Salem. Colonel Timothy 
Pickering, with thirty or forty militia men, prevented 
the English colonel, Leslie, with four times as many 
regular soldiers, from taking possession of some military 
stores. No blood was shed on this occasion; but, soon 
afterward, it began to flow. General Gage sent eight 
hundred soldiers to Concord, about eighteen miles 
from Boston, to destroy some ammunition and provi¬ 
sions which the colonists had collected there. They 
set out on their march in the evening of the 18th of 
April, 1775. The next morning, the general sent Lord 
Percy, with nine hundred men, to strengthen the troops 
that had gone before. All that day the inhabitants of 
Boston heard various rumors. Some said that the 
British were making great slaughter among our coun¬ 
trymen. Others affirmed that every man had turned 
out with his musket, and that not a single soldier would 
ever get back to Boston. 

“ It was after sunset,” continued Grandfather, “ when 
the troops, who had marched forth so proudly, were 
seen entering Charlestown. They were covered with 
dust, and so hot and weary that their tongues hung 
out of their mouths. Many of them were faint with 
wounds. They had not all returned. Nearly three 
hundred were strown, dead or dying, along the road 
from Concord. The yeomanry had risen upon the 
invaders, and driven them back.” 

“ Was this the battle of Lexington ? ” asked Charley. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l S3 


“Yes,” replied Grandfather; “it was so called, 
because the British, without provocation, had fired 
upon a party of minute men, near Lexington meeting¬ 
house, and killed eight of them. That fatal volley, 
which was fired by order of Major Pitcairn, began the 
war of the Revolution.” 

About this time, if Grandfather had been correctly 
informed, our chair disappeared from the British Coffee 
House. The manner of its departure cannot be satis¬ 
factorily ascertained. Perhaps the keeper of the Coffee 
House turned it out of doors, on account of its old- 
fashioned aspect. Perhaps he sold it as a curiosity. 
Perhaps it was taken, without leave, by some person 
who regarded it as public property, because it had once 
figured under Liberty Tree. Or, perhaps, the old chair, 
being of a peaceable disposition, h.ad made use of its 
four oaken legs, and run away from the seat of war. 

“ It would have made a terrible clattering over the 
pavement,” said Charley, laughing. 

“Meanwhile,” continued Grandfather, “during the 
mysterious non-appearance of our chair, an army of 
twenty thousand men had started up, and come to the 
siege of Boston. General Gage and his troops were 
cooped up within the narrow precincts of the peninsula. 
On the 17th of June, 1775, the famous battle of Bunker 
Hill was fought. Here General Warren fell. The 
British got the victory, indeed, but with the loss of 
more than a thousand officers and men.” 

“Oh, Grandfather,” cried Charley, “you must tell us 
about that famous battle.” 

“ No, Charley,” said Grandfather, “ I am not like 
other historians. Battles shall not hold a prominent 
place in the history of our quiet and comfortable old 
chair. But, to-morrow evening, Laurence, Clara, and 
yourself, and dear little Alice too, shall visit the Dio¬ 
rama of Bunker Hill. There you shall see the whole 
business, the burning of Charlestown and all, with your 
own eyes, and hear the cannon and musketry with your 
own ears.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


HE next evening but one, when the children had 



X given Grandfather a full account of the Diorama 
of Bunker Hill, they entreated him not to keep them 
any longer in suspense about the fate of his chair. The 
reader will recollect, that at the last accounts, it had 
trotted away upon its poor old legs, nobody knew 
whither. But, before gratifying their curiosity, Grand¬ 
father found it necessary to say something about public 


events. 


The continental Congress, which was assembled at 
Philadelphia, was composed of delegates from all the 
colonies. They had now appointed George Washing¬ 
ton, of Virginia, to be commander-in-chief of all the 
American armies. He was, at that time, a member of 
Congress, but immediately left Philadelphia, and began 
his journey to Massachusetts. On the 3d of July, 1775, 
he arrived at Cambridge, and took command of the 
troops which were besieging General Gage. 

“Oh, Grandfather,” exclaimed Laurence, “it makes 
my heart throb to think what is coming now. We are 
to see General Washington himself.” 

The children crowded around Grandfather, and looked 
earnestly into his face. Even little Alice opened her 
sweet blue eyes, with her lips apart, and almost held 
her breath to listen; so instinctive is the reverence of 
childhood for the father of his country. Grandfather 
paused a moment; for he felt as if it might be irrever¬ 
ent to introduce the hallowed shade of Washington into 
a history, where an ancient elbow chair occupied the 
most prominent place. However, he determined to 
proceed with his narrative, and speak of the hero when 
it was needful, but with an unambitious simplicity. 

So Grandfather told his auditors, that, on General 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


*5$ 


Washington’s arrival at Cambridge, his first care was 
to reconnoitre the British troops with his spy-glass, and 
to examine the condition of his own army. He found 
that the American troops amounted to about fourteen 
thousand men. They were extended all round the 
peninsula of Boston, a space of twelve miles, from 
the high grounds of Roxbury on the right, to Mystic 
River on the left. Some were living in tents of sail¬ 
cloth, some in shanties, rudely constructed of boards, 
some in huts of stone or turf, with curious windows and 
doors of basket-work. 

In order to be near the centre, and oversee the whole 
of this wide-stretched army, the commander-in-chief made 
his headquarters at Cambridge, about half^a mile from 
the colleges. A mansion-house, which perhaps had been 
the country-seat of some tory gentleman, was provided 
for his residence. 

“ When General Washington first entered this man¬ 
sion,” said Grandfather, “ he was ushered up the stair¬ 
case, and shown into a handsome apartment. He sat 
down in a large chair, which was the most conspicuous 
object in the room. The noble figure of Washington 
would have done honor to a throne. As he sat there, 
with his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword, 
which was placed between his knees, his whole aspect 
well befitted the chosen man on whom his country 
leaned for the defence of her dearest rights. America 
seemed safe, under his protection. His face was 
grander than any sculptor had ever wrought in marble; 
none could behold him without awe and reverence. 
Never before had the lion’s head, at the summit of the 
chair, looked down upon such a face and form as 
Washington’s! ” 

“Why! Grandfather,” cried Clara, clasping her hands 
in amazement, “ was it really so ? Did General Wash¬ 
ington sit in our great chair ? ” 

“I knew how it would be,” said Laurence; “I fore¬ 
saw it, the moment Grandfather began to speak.” 

Grandfather smiled. But, turning from the personal 
and domestic life of the illustrious leader, he spoke of 


156 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

the methods which Washington adopted to win back 
the metropolis of New England from the British. 

The army, when he took command of it, was without 
any discipline or order. The privates considered them¬ 
selves as good as their officers, and seldom thought it 
necessary to obey their commands, unless they under¬ 
stood the why and wherefore. Moreover, they were 
enlisted for so short a period, that, as soon as they 
began to be respectable soldiers, it was time to dis¬ 
charge them. Then came new recruits, who had to be 
taught their duty, before they could be of any service. 
Such was the army with which Washington had to 
contend against more than twenty veteran British regi¬ 
ments. 

Some of the men had no muskets, and almost all were 
without bayonets. Heavy cannon, for battering the 
British fortifications, were much wanted. There was 
but a small quantity of powder and ball, few tools to 
build intrenchments with, and a great deficiency of 
provisions and clothes for the soldiers. Yet, in spite 
of these perplexing difficulties, the eyes of the whole 
people were fixed on General Washington, expecting 
him to undertake some great enterprise against the 
hostile army. 

The first thing that he found necessary, was to bring 
his own men into better order and discipline. It is 
wonderful how soon he transformed this rough mob of 
country people into the semblance of a regular army. 
One of Washington’s most invaluable characteristics 
was the faculty of bringing order out of confusion. All 
business, with which he had any concern, seemed to 
regulate itself, as if by magic. The influence of his 
mind was like light, gleaming through an unshaped 
world. It was this faculty, more than any other, that 
made him so fit to ride upon the storm of the Revolu¬ 
tion, when everything was unfixed and drifting about in 
a troubled sea. 

“ Washington had not been long at the head of the 
army,” proceeded Grandfather, “before his soldiers 
thought as highly of him as if he had led them to a 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


1 57 


hundred victories. They knew that he was the very 
man whom the country needed, and the only one who 
could bring them safely through the great contest against 
the might of England. They put entire confidence in 
his courage, wisdom, and integrity.” 

“ And were they not eager to follow him against the 
British ? ” asked Charley. 

“ Doubtless they would have gone whithersoever his 
sword pointed the way,” answered Grandfather; “ and 
Washington was anxious to make a decisive assault upon 
the enemy. But, as the enterprise was very hazardous, 
he called a council of all the generals in the army. Ac¬ 
cordingly, they came from their different posts, and were 
ushered into the reception room. The commander-in¬ 
chief arose from our great chair to greet them.” 

“ What were their names ? ” asked Charley. 

“ There was General Artemas Ward,” replied Grand¬ 
father, “ a lawyer by profession. He had commanded 
the troops before Washington’s arrival. Another was 
General Charles Lee, who had been a colonel in the 
English army, and was thought to possess vast military 
science. He came to the council, followed by two or 
three dogs, who were always at his heels. There was 
General Putnam, too, who was known all over New 
England by the name of Old Put.” 

“ Was it he who killed the wolf ? ” inquired Charley. 

“ The same,” said Grandfather; “ and he had done 
good service in the Old French War. His occupation 
was that of a farmer; but he left his plough in the fur¬ 
row, at the news of Lexington battle. Then there was 
General Gates, who afterward gained great renown at 
Saratoga, and lost it again at Camden. General Greene, 
of Rhode Island, was likewise at the council. Washing¬ 
ton soon discovered him to be one of the best officers in 
the army.” 

When the generals were all assembled, Washington 
consulted them about a plan for storming the English 
batteries. But it was their unanimous opinion that so 
perilous an enterprise ought not to be attempted. The 
army, therefore, continued to besiege Boston, preventing 


158 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

the enemy from obtaining supplies of provisions, but 
without taking any immediate measures to get posses¬ 
sion of the town. In this manner the summer, autumn, 
and winter passed away. 

“ Many a night, doubtless,” said Grandfather, “ after 
Washington had been all day on horseback, galloping 
from one post pf the army to another, he used to sit in 
our great chair, wrapt in earnest thought. Had you 
seen him, you might have supposed that his whole mind 
was fixed on the blue china tiles, which adorned the old- 
fashioned fire-place. But, in reality, he was meditating 
how to capture the British army, or drive it out of Boston. 
Once when there was a hard frost, he formed a scheme 
to cross the Charles River on the ice. But the other 
generals could not be persuaded that there was any 
prospect of success.” 

“ What were the British doing all this time ? ” inquired 
Charley. 

“They lay idle in the town,” replied Grandfather. 
“ General Gage had been recalled to England, and was 
succeeded by Sir William Howe. The British army, 
and the inhabitants of Boston, were now in great dis¬ 
tress. Being shut up in the town so long, they had con¬ 
sumed almost all their provisions, and burnt up all their 
fuel. The soldiers tore down the Old North Church, 
and used its rotten boards and timbers for firewood. 
To heighten their distress the small-pox broke out. 
They probably lost far more men by cold, hunger, and 
sickness, than had been slain at Lexington and Bunker 
Hill.” 

“ What a dismal time for the poor women and chil¬ 
dren ! ” exclaimed Clara. 

“ At length,” continued Grandfather, “ in March, 
1776, General Washington, who had now a good supply 
of powder, began a terrible cannonade and bombard¬ 
ment from Dorchester heights. One of the cannon 
balls which he fired into the town struck the tower of 
the Brattle Street Church, where it may still be seen. 
Sir William Howe made preparations to cross over in 
boats, and drive the Americans from their batteries, but 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


l 59 


was prevented by a violent gale and storm. General 
Washington next erected a battery on Nook’s Hill, so 
near the enemy, that it was impossible for them to 
remain in Boston any longer.” 

“ Hurra! Hurra ! ” cried Charley, clapping his hands 
triumphantly. “ I wish I had been there, to see how 
sheepish the Englishmen looked.” 

And, as Grandfather thought that Boston had never 
witnessed a more interesting period than this, when the 
royal power was in its death agony, he determined to 
take a peep into the town, and imagine the feelings of 
those who were quitting it forever. 




CHAPTER IX 


A LAS for the poor tories! ” said Grandfather. 

“ Until the very last morning after Washington’s 
troops had shown themselves on Nook’s Hill, these un¬ 
fortunate persons could not believe that the audacious 
rebels, as they called the Americans, would ever prevail 
against King George’s army. But, when they saw the 
British soldiers preparing to embark on board of the 
ships of war, then they knew that they had lost their 
country. Could the patriots have known how bitter 
were their regrets, they would have forgiven them all 
their evil deeds, and sent a blessing after them as they 
sailed away from their native shore.” 

In order to make the children sensible of the pitiable 
condition of these men, Grandfather singled out Peter 
Oliver, chief justice of Massachusetts under the crown, 
and imagined him walking through the streets of Bos¬ 
ton, on the morning before he left it forever. 

This effort of Grandfather’s fancy may be called — 

The Tory’s Farewell 

Old Chief Justice Oliver threw on his red cloak, and 
placed his three-cornered hat on the top of his white 
wig. In this garb he intended to go forth and take a 
parting look at objects that had been familiar to him 
from his youth. Accordingly, he began his walk in the 
north part of the town, and soon came to P"aneuil Hall. 
This edifice, the cradle of liberty, had been used by the 
British officers as a play-house. 

“ Would that I could see its walls crumble to dust! ” 
thought the chief justice; and, in the bitterness of his 
heart, he shook his fist at the famous hall. “ There be¬ 
gan the mischief which now threatens to render asunder 
the British empire. The seditious harangues of dema- 

160 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 161 

gogues in Faneuil Hall have made rebels of a loyal 
people, and deprived me of my country.” 

He then passed through a narrow avenue, and found 
himself in King Street, almost in the very spot which, 
six years before, had been reddened by the blood of the 
Boston Massacre. The chief justice stepped cautiously, 
and shuddered, as if he were afraid, that, even now, the 
gore of his slaughtered countrymen might stain his feet. 

Before him rose the Town House, on the front of 
which were still displayed the royal arms. Within that 
edifice he had dispensed justice to the people, in the 
days when his name was never mentioned without honor. 
There, too, was the balcony whence the trumpet had 
been sounded, and the proclamation read to an assembled 
multitude, whenever a new king of England ascended 
the throne. 

“I remember—I remember,” said Chief Justice Oli¬ 
ver to himself, “ when his present most sacred Majesty 
was proclaimed. Then how the people shouted. Each 
man would have poured out his life-blood to keep a hair 
of King George’s head from harm. But now, there is 
scarcely a tongue in all New England that does not im¬ 
precate curses on his name. It is ruin and disgrace to 
love him. Can it be possible that a few fleeting years 
have wrought such a change! ” 

It did not occur to the chief justice, that nothing but 
the most grievous tyranny could so soon have changed 
the people’s hearts. Hurrying from the spot, he entered 
Cornhill, as the lower part of Washington Street was 
then called. Opposite to the Town House was the waste 
foundation of the Old North Church. The sacrilegious 
hands of the British soldiers had torn it down, and 
kindled their barrack fires with the fragments. 

Further on, he passed beneath the tower of the Old 
South. The threshold of this sacred edifice was worn 
by the iron tramp of horses’ feet, for the interior had 
been used as a riding-school and rendezvous for a regi¬ 
ment of dragoons. As the chief justice lingered an in¬ 
stant at the door, a trumpet sounded within, and the 
regiment came clattering forth, and galloped down the 


i 62 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


street. They were proceeding to the place of embar¬ 
kation. 

“ Let them go ! ” thought the chief justice, with some¬ 
what of an old Puritan feeling in his breast. “No good 
can come of men who desecrate the house of God.” 

He went on a few steps further, and paused before 
the Province House. No range of brick stores had then 
sprung up to hide the mansion of the royal governors 
from public view. It had a spacious courtyard, bor¬ 
dered with trees, and inclosed with a wrought-iron fence. 
On the cupola, that surmounted the edifice, was the 
gilded figure of an Indian chief, ready to let fly an 
arrow from his bow. Over the wide front door was a 
balcony, in which the chief justice had often stood, 
when the governor and high officers of the province 
showed themselves to the people. 

While Chief Justice Oliver gazed sadly at the Prov¬ 
ince House, before which a sentinel was pacing, the 
double leaves of the door were thrown open, and Sir 
William Howe made his appearance. Behind him came 
a throng of officers, whose steel scabbards clattered 
against the stones, as they hastened down the court¬ 
yard. Sir William Howe was a dark-complexioned man, 
stern and haughty in his deportment. He stepped as 
proudly, in that hour of defeat, as if he were going to 
receive the submission of the rebel general. 

The chief justice bowed and accosted him. 

“ This is a grievous hour for both of us, Sir William,” 
said he. 

“ Forward ! gentlemen,” said Sir William Howe to the 
officers who attended him ; “ we have no time to hear lam¬ 
entations now ! ” 

And, coldly bowing, he departed. Thus the chief 
justice had a foretaste of the mortifications which the 
exiled New Englanders afterwards suffered from the 
haughty Britons. They were despised even by that 
country which they had served more faithfully than 
their own. 

A still heavier trial awaited Chief Justice Oliver, as he 
passed onward from the Province House. He was recog- 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 163 

nized by the people in the street. They had long known 
him as the descendant of an ancient and honorable fam¬ 
ily. They had seen him sitting, in his scarlet robes, 
upon the judgment seat. All his life long, either for 
the sake of his ancestors, or on account of his own 
dignified station and unspotted character, he had been 
held in high respect. The old gentry of the province 
were looked upon almost as noblemen, while Massachu¬ 
setts was under royal government. 

But now, all hereditary reverence for birth and rank 
was gone. The inhabitants shouted in derision, when 
they saw the venerable form of the old chief justice. 
They laid the wrongs of the country, and their own 
sufferings during the siege,—their hunger, cold, and 
sickness, — partly to his charge, and to that of his 
brother Andrew, and his kinsman Hutchinson. It was 
by their advice that the king had acted, in all the colonial 
troubles. But the day of recompense was come. 

“ See the old tory! ” cried the people, with bitter 
laughter. “ He is taking his last look at us. Let him 
show his white wig among us an hour hence, and we ’ll 
give him a coat of tar and feathers! ” 

The chief justice, however, knew that he need fear no 
violence, so long as the British troops were in possession 
of the town. But alas ! it was a bitter thought, that he 
should leave no loving memory behind him. His fore¬ 
fathers, long after their spirits left the earth, had been 
honored in the affectionate remembrance of the people. 
But he, who would henceforth be dead to his native land, 
would have no epitaph save scornful vindictive words. 
The old man wept. 

“ They curse me — they invoke all kinds of evil on my 
head ! ” thought he, in the midst of his tears. “ But, if 
they could read my heart, they would know that I love 
New England well. Heaven bless her, and bring her 
again under the rule of our gracious king! A blessing, 
too, on these poor misguided people! ” 

The chief justice flung out his hands with a gesture, 
as if he were bestowing a parting benediction on his 
countrymen. He had now reached the southern portion 


164 GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR 


of the town, and was far within the range of cannon 
shot from the American batteries. Close beside him 
was the broad stump of a tree, which appeared to have 
been recently cut down. Being weary and heavy at 
heart he was about to sit down upon the stump. 

Suddenly, it flashed upon his recollection, that this 
was the stump of Liberty Tree ! The British soldiers 
had cut it down, vainly boasting that they could as easily 
overthrow the liberties of America. Under its shadowy 
branches, ten years before, the brother of Chief Justice 
Oliver had been compelled to acknowledge the suprem¬ 
acy of the people, by taking the oath which they pre¬ 
scribed. This tree was connected with all the events 
that had severed America from England. 

“ Accursed tree ! ” cried the chief justice, gnashing 
his teeth, for anger overcame his sorrow. “ Would that 
thou hadst been left standing, till Hancock, Adams, and 
every other traitor were hanged upon thy branches ! 
Then fitly mightest thou have been hewn down, and 
cast into the flames.” 

He turned back, hurried to Long Wharf without look¬ 
ing behind him, embarked with the British troops for 
Halifax, and never saw his country more. Throughout 
the remainder of his days, Chief Justice Oliver was agi¬ 
tated with those same conflicting emotions, that had 
tortured him, while taking his farewell walk through the 
streets of Boston. Deep love and fierce resentment 
burned in one flame within his breast. Anathemas 
struggled with benedictions. He felt as if one breath 
of his native air would renew his life, yet would have 
died, rather than breathe the same air with rebels. 

And such, likewise, were the feelings of the other 
exiles, a thousand in number, who departed with the 
British army. Were they not the most lyifortunate of 
men ? 

“The misfortunes of these exiled tories,” observed 
Laurence, “must have made them think of the poor 
exiles of Acadia.” 

“They had a sad time of it, I suppose,” said Charley. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 165 

“ But I choose to rejoice with the patriots, rather than 
be sorrowful with the tories. Grandfather, what did 
General Washington do now ? ” 

“ As the rear of the British army embarked from the 
wharf,” replied Grandfather, “ General Washington’s 
troops marched over the neck, through the fortification 
gates, and entered Boston in triumph. And now, for 
the first time since the pilgrims landed, Massachusetts 
was free from the dominion of England. May she 
never again be subjected to foreign rule — never again 
feel the rod of oppression ! ” 

“ Dear Grandfather,” asked little Alice, “ did General 
Washington bring our chair back to Boston ? ” 

“ I know not how long the chair remained at Cam¬ 
bridge,” said Grandfather. “ Had it staid there till this 
time, it could not have found a better or more appropri¬ 
ate shelter. The mansion which General Washington 
occupied is still standing; and his apartments have 
since been tenanted by several eminent men. Governor 
Everett, while a professor in the university, resided there. 
So, at an after period, did Mr. Sparks, whose invaluable 
labors have connected his name with the immortality 
of Washington. And, at this very time, a venerable 
friend and contemporary of your Grandfather, after 
long pilgrimages beyond the sea, has set up his staff of 
rest at Washington’s headquarters.” 

“ You mean Professor Longfellow, Grandfather,” said 
Laurence. “ Oh, how I should love to see the author of 
those beautiful Voices of the Night ! ” 

“ We will visit him next summer,” answered Grand¬ 
father, “ and take Clara and little Alice with us — and 
Charley, too, if he will be quiet.” 


CHAPTER X 


HEN Grandfather resumed his narrative, the next 



vv evening, he told the children that he had some 
difficulty in tracing the movements of the chair, during 
a short period after General Washington’s departure 
from Cambridge. 

Within a few months, however, it made its appearance 
at a shop in Boston, before the door of which was seen 
a striped pole. In the interior was displayed a stuffed 
alligator, a rattle-snake’s skin, a bundle of Indian arrows, 
an old-fashioned match-lock gun, a walking-stick of 
Governor Winthrop’s, a wig of old Cotton Mather’s, and 
a colored print of the Boston Massacre. In short, it was 
a barber’s shop, kept by a Mr. Pierce, who prided him¬ 
self on having shaved General Washington, Old Put, 
and many other famous persons. 

“ This was not a very dignified situation for our vener¬ 
able chair,” continued Grandfather; “ but, you know, 
there is no better place for news, than a barber’s shop. 
All the events of the revolutionary war were heard of 
there, sooner than anywhere else. People used to sit 
in the chair, reading the newspaper or talking, and wait¬ 
ing to be shaved, while Mr. Pierce, with his scissors and 
razor, was at work upon the heads or chins of his other 
customers.” 

“ I am sorry the chair could not betake itself to some 
more suitable place of refuge,” said Laurence. “ It was 
old now, and must have longed for quiet. Besides, after 
it had held Washington in its arms, it ought not to have 
been compelled to receive all the world. It should have 
been put into the pulpit of the Old South Church, or 
some other consecrated place.” 

“ Perhaps so,” answered Grandfather. “ But the 
chair, in the course of its varied existence, had grown 
so accustomed to general intercourse with society, that 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


167 

I doubt whether it would have contented itself in the 
pulpit of the Old South. There it would have stood 
solitary, or with no livelier companion than the silent 
organ, in the opposite gallery, six days out of seven. 
I incline to think, that it had seldom been situated more 
to its mind, than on the sanded floor of the snug little 
barber’s shop.” 

Then Grandfather amused his children and himself, 
with fancying all the different sorts of people who had 
occupied our chair, while they awaited the leisure of 
the barber. 

There was the old clergyman, such as Dr. Chauncey, 
wearing a white wig, which the barber took from his 
head, and placed upon a wig-block. Half an hour, per¬ 
haps, was spent in combing and powdering this reverend 
appendage to a clerical skull. There, too, were officers 
of the continental army, who required their hair to be 
pomatumed and plastered, so as to give them a bold and 
martial aspect. There, once in a while, was seen the 
thin, care-worn, melancholy visage of an old tory, with 
a wig that, in times long past, had perhaps figured at a 
Province House ball. And there, not unfrequently, sat 
the rough captain of a privateer, just returned from a 
successful cruise, in which he had captured half a dozen 
richly-laden vessels, belonging to King George’s sub¬ 
jects. And, sometimes, a rosy little school-boy climbed 
into our chair, and sat staring, with wide-open eyes, at 
the alligator, the rattle-snake, and the other curiosities 
of the barber’s shop. His mother had sent him, with 
sixpence in his hand, to get his glossy curls cropped off. 
The incidents of the Revolution plentifully supplied the 
barber’s customers with topics of conversation. They 
talked sorrowfully of the death of General Montgomery, 
and the failure of our troops to take Quebec; for the 
New Englanders were now as anxious to get Canada 
from the English, as they had formerly been to conquer 
it from the French. 

“ But, very soon,” said Grandfather, “ came news 
from Philadelphia, the most important that America 
had ever heard of. On the 4th of July, 1776, Congress 


168 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


had signed the Declaration of Independence. The thir¬ 
teen colonies were now free and independent states. 
Dark as our prospects were, the inhabitants welcomed 
these glorious tidings, and resolved to perish, rather 
than again bear the yoke of England ! ” 

“ And I would perish too ! ” cried Charley. 

“It was a great day — a glorious deed!” said Lau¬ 
rence, coloring high with enthusiasm. “And, Grand¬ 
father, I love to think that the sages in Congress showed 
themselves as bold and true as the soldiers in the field. 
For it must have required more courage to sign the 
Declaration of Independence, than to fight the enemy 
in battle.” 

Grandfather acquiesced in Laurence’s view of the 
matter. He then touched briefly and hastily upon the 
prominent events of the Revolution. The thunder¬ 
storm of war had now rolled southward, and did not 
again burst upon Massachusetts, where its first fury 
had been felt. But she contributed her full share to 
the success of the contest. Wherever a battle was 
fought — whether at Long Island, White Plains, Tren¬ 
ton, Princeton, Brandywine, or Germantown — some of 
her brave sons were found slain upon the field. 

In October, 1777, General Burgoyne surrendered his 
army, at Saratoga, to the American general, Gates. 
The captured troops were sent to Massachusetts. Not 
long afterwards, Doctor Franklin and other American 
commissioners made a treaty at Paris by which France 
bound herself to assist our countrymen. The gallant 
Lafayette was already fighting for our freedom, by the 
side of Washington. In 1778, a French fleet, com¬ 
manded by Count d’Estaing, spent a considerable time 
in Boston Harbor. It marks the vicissitudes of human 
affairs, that the French, our ancient enemies, should 
come hither as comrades and brethren, and that kindred 
England should be our foe. 

“ While the war was raging in the Middle and South¬ 
ern States,” proceeded Grandfather, “Massachusetts 
had leisure to settle a new constitution of government, 
instead of the royal charter. This was done in 1780. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


169 

In the same year, John Hancock, who had been presi- 
dent of Congress, was chosen governor of the state. 
He was the first whom the people had elected, since 
the days of old Simon Bradstreet.” 

“ But, Grandfather, who had been governor since the 
British were driven away ? ” inquired Laurence. “ Gen¬ 
eral Gage and Sir William Howe were the last whom 
you have told us of.” 

“ There had been no governor for the last four years,” 
replied Grandfather. “ Massachusetts had been ruled 
by the legislature, to whom the people paid obedience 
of their own accord. It is one of the most remarkable 
circumstances in our history, that, when the charter 
government was overthrown by the war, no anarchy, 
nor the slightest confusion ensued. This was a great 
honor to the people. But, now, Hancock was proclaimed 
governor by sound of trumpet; and there was again a 
settled government.” 

Grandfather again adverted to the progress of the war. 
In 1781, General Greene drove the British from the 
Southern States. In October, of the same year, General 
Washington compelled Lord Cornwallis to surrender his 
army, at Yorktown, in Virginia. This was the last great 
event of the revolutionary contest. King George and 
his ministers perceived that all the might of England 
could not compel America to renew her allegiance to 
the crown. After a great deal of discussion a treaty of 
peace was signed, in September, 1783. 

“ Now, at last,” said Grandfather, “ after weary years 
of war, the regiments of Massachusetts returned in peace 
to their families. Now, the stately and dignified leaders 
such as General Lincoln and General Knox, with their 
powdered hair and their uniforms of blue and buff, were 
seen moving about the streets.” 

“And little boys ran after them, I suppose,” re¬ 
marked Charley; “and the grown people bowed respect¬ 
fully.” 

“ They deserved respect, for they were good men, as 
well as brave,” answered Grandfather. “ Now, too, the 
inferior officers and privates came home to seek some 


170 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


peaceful occupation. Their friends remembered them 
as slender and smooth-cheeked young men; but they 
returned with the erect and rigid mien of disciplined 
soldiers. Some hobbled on crutches and wooden legs ; 
others had received wounds, which were still rankling 
in their breasts. Many, alas! had fallen in battle and 
perhaps were left unburied on the bloody field.” 

“The country must have been sick of war,” observed 
Laurence. 

“ One would have thought so,” said Grandfather. 
“Yet only two or three years elapsed, before the folly 
of some misguided men caused another mustering of 
soldiers. This affair was called Shays’ War, because a 
Captain Shays was the chief leader of the insurgents.” 

“ Oh, Grandfather, don’t let there be another war! ” 
cried little Alice, piteously. 

Grandfather comforted his dear little girl by assuring 
her that there was no great mischief done. Shays’ 
War happened in the latter part 4 of 1786, and the begin¬ 
ning of the following year. Its principal cause was the 
badness of the times. The State of Massachusetts, in 
its public capacity, was very much in debt. So, like¬ 
wise, were many of the people. An insurrection took 
place, the object of which seems to have been to 
interrupt the course of law, and get rid of debts and 
taxes.” 

James Bowdoin, a good and able man, was now 
governor of Massachusetts. He sent General Lincoln, 
at the head of four thousand men, to put down the 
insurrection. This general, who had fought through 
several hard campaigns in the Revolution, managed 
matters like an old soldier, and totally defeated the 
rebels, at the expense of very little blood. 

“ There is but one more public event to be recorded 
in the history of our chair,” proceeded Grandfather. 
“In the year 1794, Samuel Adams was elected governor 
of Massachusetts. I have told you what a distinguished 
patriot he was, and how much he resembled the stern 
old Puritans. Could the ancient freemen of Massachu¬ 
setts, who lived in the days of the first charter, have 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


171 

arisen from their graves, they would probably have 
voted for Samuel Adams to be governor.” 

“Well, Grandfather, I hope he sat in our chair!” 
said Clara. 

“ He did,” replied Grandfather. “ He had long been 
in the habit of visiting the barber’s shop, where our 
venerable chair, philosophically forgetful of its former 
dignities, had now spent nearly eighteen not uncomfort¬ 
able years. Such a remarkable piece of furniture, so 
evidently a relic of long-departed times, could not escape 
the notice of Samuel Adams. He made minute re¬ 
searches into its history, and ascertained what a succes¬ 
sion of excellent and famous people had occupied it.” 

“How did he find it out?” asked Charley. “For I 
suppose the chair could not tell its own history.” 

“ There used to be a vast collection of ancient letters 
and other documents in the tower of the Old South 
Church,” answered Grandfather. “ Perhaps the history 
of our chair was contained among these. At all events 
Samuel Adams appears to have been well acquainted 
with it. When he became governor, he felt that he 
could have no more honorable seat, than that which had 
been the ancient Chair of State. He therefore purchased 
it for a trifle, and filled it worthily for three years as 
governor of Massachusetts.” 

“ And what next ? ” asked Charley. 

“ That is all,” said Grandfather, heaving a sigh; for 
he could not help being a little sad, at the thought that 
his stories must close here. “ Samuel Adams died in 1803, 
at the age of above threescore and ten. He was a great 
patriot, but a poor man. At his death, he left scarcely 
property enough to pay the expenses of his funeral. 
This precious chair, among his other effects, was sold at 
auction; and your Grandfather, who was then in the 
strength of his years, became the purchaser.” 

Laurence, with a mind full of thoughts, that struggled 
for expression, but could find none, looked steadfastly at 
the chair. 

He had now learned all its history, yet was not 
satisfied. 


1J2 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


“ Oh, how I wish that the chair could speak! ” cried 
he. “ After its long intercourse with mankind — after 
looking upon the world for ages—what lessons of 
golden wisdom it might utter ! It might teach a private 
person how to lead a good and happy life — or a states¬ 
man how to make his country prosperous ! ” 


CHAPTER XI 


G RANDFATHER was struck by Laurence’s idea, 
that the historic chair should utter a voice, and 
thus pour forth the collected wisdom of two centuries. 
The old gentleman had once possessed no inconsiderable 
share of fancy; and, even now, its fading sunshine occa¬ 
sionally glimmered among his more sombre reflections. 

As the history of the chair had exhausted all his facts, 
Grandfather determined to have recourse to fable. So, 
after warning the children that they must not mistake 
this story for a true one, he related what we shall call 

Grandfather’s Dream 

Laurence and Clara, where were you last night ? 
Where were you, Charley, and dear little Alice ? You 
had all gone to rest, and left old Grandfather to medi¬ 
tate alone in his great chair. The lamp had grown so 
dim, that its light hardly illuminated the alabaster shade. 
The wood-fire had crumbled into heavy embers, among 
which the little flames danced, and quivered, and sported 
about, like fairies. 

And here sat Grandfather, all by himself. He knew 
that it was bedtime; yet he could not help longing to 
hear your merry voices, or to hold a comfortable chat 
with some old friend ; because then his pillow would be 
visited by pleasant dreams. But, as neither children 
nor friends were at hand, Grandfather leaned back in 
the great chair, and closed his eyes, for the sake of 
meditating more profoundly. 

And, when Grandfather’s meditations had grown very 
profound indeed, he fancied that he heard a sound over 
his head, as if somebody were preparing to speak. 

“ Hem ! ” it said, in a dry, husky tone. “ H-e-m ! 
Hem ! ” 

173 


174 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


As Grandfather did not know that any person was 
in the room, he started up in great surprise, and peeped 
hither and thither, behind the chair, and into the recess 
by the fireside, and at the dark nook yonder, near the 
bookcase. Nobody could he see. 

“ Pooh ! ” said Grandfather to himself, “ I must have 
been dreaming.” 

But, just as he was going to resume his seat, Grand¬ 
father happened to look at the great chair. The rays 
of fire-light were flickering upon it in such a manner 
that it really seemed as if its oaken frame were all alive. 
What! Did it not move its elbow ? There, too ! It cer¬ 
tainly lifted one of its ponderous fore-legs, as if it had 
a notion of drawing itself a little nearer to the fire. 
Meanwhile, the lion’s head nodded at Grandfather, 
with as polite and sociable a look as a lion’s visage, 
carved in oak, could possibly be expected to assume. 
Well, this is strange! 

“ Good evening, my old friend,” said the dry and 
husky voice, now a little clearer than before. “ We have 
been intimately acquainted so long, that I think it high 
time we have a chat together.” 

Grandfather was looking straight at the lion’s head, 
and could not be mistaken in supposing that it moved 
its lips. So here the mystery was all explained. 

“ I was not aware,” said Grandfather, with a civil 
salutation to his oaken companion, “ that you possessed 
the faculty of speech. Otherwise, I should often have 
been glad to converse with such a solid, useful, and sub¬ 
stantial, if not brilliant member of society.” 

“ Oh ! ” replied the ancient chair, in a quiet and easy 
tone, for it had now cleared its throat of the dust of 
ages. “ I am naturally a silent and incommunicative 
sort of character. Once or twice, in the course of a 
century, I unclose my lips. When the gentle Lady 
Arbella departed this life, I uttered a groan. When the 
honest mint-master weighed his plump daughter against 
the pine-tree shillings, I chuckled audibly at the joke. 
When old Simon Bradstreet took the place of the tyrant 
Andros, I joined in the general huzza, and capered upon 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


*75 


my wooden legs for joy. To be sure, the bystanders 
were so fully occupied with their own feelings, that my 
sympathy was quite unnoticed.” 

“ And have you often held a private chat with your 
friends ? ” asked Grandfather. 

“ Not often,” answered the chair. “ I once talked 
with Sir William Phipps, and communicated my ideas 
about the witchcraft delusion. Cotton Mather had 
several conversations with me, and derived great bene¬ 
fit from my historical reminiscences. In the days of 
the Stamp Act, I whispered in the ear of Hutchinson, 
bidding him to remember what stock his countrymen 
were descended of, and to think whether the spirit of 
their forefathers had utterly departed from them. The 
last man whom I favored with a colloquy, was that stout 
old republican, Samuel Adams.” 

“And how happens it,” inquired Grandfather, “that 
there is no record nor tradition of your conversational 
abilities ? It is an uncommon thing to meet with a 
chair that can talk.” 

“Why, to tell you the truth,” said the chair, giving 
itself a hitch nearer to the hearth, “ I am not apt to 
choose the most suitable moments for unclosing my 
lips. Sometimes I have inconsiderately begun to speak 
when my occupant, lolling back in my arms, was inclined 
to take an after-dinner nap. Or, perhaps, the impulse 
to talk may be felt at midnight, when the lamp burns 
dim, and the fire crumbles into decay, and the studious 
or thoughtful man finds that his brain is in a mist. 
Oftenest, I have unwisely uttered my wisdom in the 
ears of sick persons, when the inquietude of fever made 
them toss about upon my cushion. And so it happens, 
that, though my words make a pretty strong impression at 
the moment, yet my auditors invariably remember them 
only as a dream. I should not wonder if you, my excel¬ 
lent friend, were to do the same, to-morrow morning.” 

“Nor I either,” thought Grandfather to himself. 
However, he thanked this respectable old chair for be¬ 
ginning the conversation, and begged to know whether 
it had anything particular to communicate. 


176 GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 

“ I have been listening attentively to your narrative 
of my adventures,” replied the chair, “and it must be 
owned, that your correctness entitles you to be held up 
as a pattern to biographers. Nevertheless, there are a 
few omissions, which I should be glad to see supplied. 
For instance, you make no mention of the good knight, 
Sir Richard Saltonstall, nor of the famous Hugh Peters, 
nor of those old regicide judges, Whalley, Goffe, and 
Dixwell. Yet I have borne the weight of all these dis¬ 
tinguished characters, at one time or another.” 

Grandfather promised amendment, if ‘ever he should 
have an opportunity to repeat his narrative. The good 
old chair, which still seemed to retain a due regard for 
outward appearance, then reminded him how long a time 
had passed since it had been provided with a new 
cushion. It likewise expressed the opinion, that the 
oaken figures on its back would show to much better 
advantage by the aid of a little varnish. 

“And I have had a complaint in this joint,” continued 
the chair, endeavoring to lift one of its legs, “ ever since 
Charley trundled his wheelbarrow against me.” 

“It shall be attended to,” said Grandfather. “ And 
now, venerable chair, I have a favor to solicit. During 
an existence of more than two centuries, you have had 
a familiar intercourse with men who were esteemed the 
wisest of their day. Doubtless, with your capacious 
understanding, you have treasured up many an invalu¬ 
able lesson of wisdom. You certainly have had time 
enough to guess the riddle of life. Tell us poor mortals, 
then, how we may be happy ! ” 

The lion’s head fixed its eyes thoughtfully upon the 
fire, and the whole chair assumed an aspect of deep 
meditation. Finally, it beckoned to Grandfather with 
its elbow, and made a step sideways towards him, as if 
it had a very important secret to communicate. 

“As long as I have stood in the midst of human 
affairs,” said the chair, with a very oracular enunciation, 
“ I have constantly observed that Justice, Truth, and 
Love are the chief ingredients of every happy life.” 

“Justice, Truth, and Love!” exclaimed Grandfather. 


GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR 


177 


“ We need not exist two centuries to find out that these 
qualities are essential to our happiness. This is no 
secret. Every human being is born with the instinctive 
knowledge of it.” 

“Ah!” cried the chair, drawing back in surprise. 
“ From what I have observed of the dealings of man 
with man, and nation with nation, I never should have 
suspected that they knew this all-important secret. And, 
with this eternal lesson written in your soul, do you ask 
me to sift new wisdom for you, out of my petty exist¬ 
ence of two or three centuries ?j” 

“But, my dear chair — ” said Grandfather. 

“Not a word more,” interrupted the chair; “here I 
close my lips for the next hundred years. At the end 
of that period, if I shall have discovered any new pre¬ 
cepts of happiness, better than what Heaven has already 
taught you, they shall assuredly be given to the world.” 

In the energy of its utterance, the oaken chair seemed 
to stamp its foot, and trod (we hope unintentionally) 
upon Grandfather’s toe. The old gentleman started, 
and found that he had been asleep in the great chair, 
and that his heavy walking-stick had fallen down across 
his foot. 

“ Grandfather,” cried little Alice, clapping her hands, 
“ you must dream a new dream, every night, about our 
chair! ” 

Laurence, and Clara, and Charley said the same. 
But the good old gentleman shook his head, and de¬ 
clared that here ended the history, real or fabulous of 
Grandfather’s Chair. 



BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


BENJAMIN WEST, 
SIR ISAAC NEWTON, 
SAMUEL JOHNSON, 


OLIVER CROMWELL, 
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, 
QUEEN CHRISTINA. 



This small volume, and others of a similar character, from the 
same hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of re¬ 
sponsibility. The author regards children as sacred, and would not, 
for the world, cast anything into the fountain of a young heart, 
that might embitter and pollute its waters. And, even in point of 
the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as well worth 
cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in pleasing his 
little readers, may hope to be remembered by them till their own old 
age — a far longer period of literary existence than is generally 
attained, by those who seek immortality from the judgments of full- 
grown men. 




BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


CHAPTER I 

W HEN Edward Temple was about eight or nine 
years old, he was afflicted with a disorder of the 
eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so 
delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest 
the boy should become totally blind. He therefore gave 
strict directions to keep him in a darkened chamber, with 
a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray of the blessed light 
of Heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad. 

This was a sad thing for Edward! It was just the 
same as if there were to be no more sunshine, nor moon¬ 
light, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor light of lamps. 
A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for 
months, — a longer and drearier night than that which 
voyagers are compelled to endure, when their ship is 
icebound, throughout the winter, in the Arctic Ocean. 
His dear father and mother, his brother George, and 
the sweet face of little Emily Robinson, must all vanish, 
and leave him in utter darkness and solitude. Their 
voices and footsteps, it is true, would be heard around 
him; he would feel his mother’s embrace, and the kind 
pressure of all their hands; but still it would seem as 
if they were a thousand miles away. 

And then his studies! They were to be entirely given 
up. This was another grievous trial; for Edward’s 
memory hardly went back to the period when he had 
not known how to read. Many and many a holiday 
had he spent at his book, poring over its pages until the 
deepening twilight confused the print, and made all the 
letters run into long words. Then would he press his 
hands across his eyes, and wonder why they pained him 

181 


i 82 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


so, and, when the candles were lighted, what was. the 
reason that they burned so dimly, like the moon in a 
foggy night ? Poor little fellow! So far as his eyes 
were concerned, he was already an old man, and needed 
a pair of spectacles almost as much as his own grand¬ 
father did. 

And now, alas ! the time was come, when even grand¬ 
father’s spectacles could not have assisted Edward to 
read. After a few bitter tears, which only pained his 
eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to the surgeon’s 
orders. His eyes were bandaged, and, with his mother 
on one side, and his little friend Emily on the other, he 
was led into a darkened chamber. 

“Mother, I shall be very miserable,” said Edward, 
sobbing. 

“ Oh, no, my dear child! ” replied his mother, cheer¬ 
fully. “Your eyesight was a precious gift of Heaven, 
it is true; but you would do wrong to be miserable for 
its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. 
There are other enjoyments, besides what come to us 
through our eyes.” 

“ None that are worth having,” said Edward. 

“Ah! but you will not think so long,” rejoined Mrs. 
Temple, with tenderness. “ All of us — your father, and 
myself, and George, and our sweet Emily — will try to 
find occupation and amusement for you. We will use 
all our eyes to make you happy. Will they not be 
better than a single pair ? ” 

“ I will sit by you all day long,” said Emily, in her 
low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of Edward. 

“And so will I, Ned,” said George, his elder brother, 
— “school-time and all, if my father will permit me.” 

Edward’s brother George was three or four years 
older than himself, a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and 
ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades in 
all their enterprises and amusements. As to his pro¬ 
ficiency at study, there was not much to be said. He 
had sense and ability enough to have made himself a 
scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do, that 
he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


183 

So fond was George of boisterous sports and exercises, 
that it was really a great token of affection and sym¬ 
pathy, when he offered to sit all day long in a dark 
chamber, with his poor brother Edward. 

As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter 
of one of Mr. Temple’s dearest friends. Ever since her 
mother went to Heaven, (which was soon after Emily’s 
birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the household where 
we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love 
her as well as their own children; for they had no 
daughter except Emily; nor would the boys have 
known the blessing of a sister, had not this gentle 
stranger come to teach them what it was. If I could 
show you Emily’s face, with her dark hair smoothed 
away from her forehead, you would be pleased with her 
look of simplicity and loving-kindness, but might think 
that she was somewhat too grave for a child of seven 
years old. But you would not love her the less for 
that. 

So brother George, and this loving little girl, were to 
be Edward’s companions and playmates, while he should 
be kept prisoner in the dark chamber. When the first 
bitterness of his grief was over, he began to feel that 
there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life, 
even for a boy whose eyes were covered with a bandage. 

“ I thank you, dear mother,” said he, with only a few 
sobs, “and you, Emily; and you too, George. You 
will all be very kind to me, I know. And my father — 
will not he come and see me, every day ? ” 

“Yes, my dear boy,” said Mr. Temple; for, though 
invisible to Edward, he was standing close beside him. 
“ I will spend some hours of every day with you. And 
as I have often amused you by relating stories and 
adventures, while you had the use of your eyes, I can 
do the same, now that you are unable to read. Will 
that please you, Edward ? ” 

“ Oh, very much ! ” replied Edward. 

“Well, then,” said his father, “this evening we will 
begin the series of Biographical Stories, which I 
promised you some time ago.” 


CHAPTER II 


W HEN evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward 
considerably revived in spirits, and disposed to 
be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of 
the boy, as it was dimly seen by the firelight, reclining 
in a well-stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable 
that many people might have envied him. When a 
man’s eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of 
the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune 
to have them bandaged. 

Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward’s side, with the 
air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness 
of the chamber would permit, she watched all his 
motions, and each varying expression of his face, and 
tried to anticipate her patient’s wishes, before his tongue 
could utter them. Yet it was noticeable, that the child 
manifested an indescribable awe and disquietude, when¬ 
ever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for to her sim¬ 
ple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend 
Edward was separated from her, because she could not 
see his eyes. A friend’s eyes tell us many things, which 
could never be spoken by the tongue. 

George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as 
stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do, in the 
society of the sick or afflicted. Never having felt 
pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing 
how to sympathize with the sufferings of others. 

“Well, my dear Edward,” inquired Mrs. Temple, “is 
your chair quite comfortable ? and has your little nurse 
provided for all your wants ? If so, your father is ready 
to begin his stories.” 

“ Oh, I am very well now,” answered Edward, with 
a faint smile. “And my ears have not forsaken me, 
184 


BENJAMIN WEST 185 

though my eyes are good for nothing. So, pray, dear 
father, begin! ” 

It was Mr. Temple’s design to tell the children a 
series of true stories, the incidents of which should be 
taken from the childhood and early life of eminent 
people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, 
and Emily, into closer acquaintance with the famous 
persons who have lived in other times, by showing that 
they also had been children once. Although Mr. Tem¬ 
ple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was 
founded on fact, yet he felt himself at liberty to clothe 
the incidents of his narrative in a new coloring, so that 
his auditors might understand them the better." 

“My first story,” said he, “shall be about a painter 
of pictures.” 

“ Dear me! ” cried Edward, with a sigh. “ I am 
afraid I shall never look at pictures any more.” 

“We will hope for the best,” answered his father. 
“ In the meantime, you must try to see things within 
your own mind.” 

Mr. Temple then began the following story: — 

Benjamin West 
B orn 1738. Died 1820 

In the year 1738, there came into the world, in the 
town of Springfield, Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, 
from whom his parents and neighbors looked for won¬ 
derful things. A famous preacher of the Society of 
Friends had prophesied about little Ben, and foretold 
that he would be one of the most remarkable characters 
that had appeared on the earth since the days of 
William Penn. On this account the eyes of many peo¬ 
ple were fixed upon the boy. Some of his ancestors 
had won great renown in the old wars of England and 
France; but it was probably expected that Ben would 
become a preacher, and would convert multitudes to the 
peaceful doctrines of the Quakers. Friend West and 
his wife were thought to be very fortunate in having 
such a son. 


186 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without 
doing anything that was worthy to be told in history. 
But, one summer afternoon, in his seventh year, his 
mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the 
flies away from the face of a little babe, who lay fast 
asleep in the cradle. She then left the room. 

The boy waved the fan to and fro, and drove away 
the buzzing flies whenever they had the impertinence to 
come near the baby’s face. When they had all flown 
out of the window, or into distant parts of the room, he 
bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing 
at the sleeping infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty 
sight. The little personage in the cradle slumbered 
peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, look¬ 
ing as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing 
lullabies in its ear. Indeed, it must have been dream¬ 
ing about Heaven; for, while Ben stooped over the 
cradle, the little baby smiled. 

“ How beautiful she looks! ” said Ben to himself. 
“ What a pity it is, that such a pretty smile should not 
last forever! ” 

Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard 
of that wonderful art, by which a look, that appears and 
vanishes in a moment, may be made to last for hundreds 
of years. But though nobody had told him of such an 
art, he may be said to have invented it fQr himself. On 
a table, near at hand, there were pens and paper, and 
ink of two colors, black and red. The boy seized a pen 
and sheet of paper, and kneeling down beside the cradle, 
began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was 
busied in this manner, he heard his mother’s step ap¬ 
proaching, and hastily tried to conceal the paper. 

“Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?” 
inquired his mother, observing marks of confusion in 
his face. 

At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if 
there might be something wrong in stealing the baby’s 
face, and putting it upon a sheet of paper. However, 
as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into her 
hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well 


BENJAMIN WEST 


187 


scolded. But when the good lady saw what was on 
the paper, in lines of red and black ink, she uttered a 
scream of surprise and joy. 

“ Bless me! ” cried she. “ It is a picture of little 
Sally! ” 

And then she threw her arms round our friend Ben¬ 
jamin, and kissed him so tenderly, that he never after¬ 
wards was afraid to show his performances to his 
mother. 

As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast 
delight in looking at the hues and forms of nature. 
For instance, he was greatly pleased with the blue 
violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scar¬ 
let cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline 
of the year, when the woods were variegated with all 
the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to desire nothing 
better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The 
purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. 
And he was continually endeavoring to draw the figures 
of trees, men, mountains, houses, cattle, geese, ducks, 
and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on barn-doors, or on 
the floor. 

In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were still 
numerous in Pennsylvania. Every year a party of 
them used to pay a visit to Springfield, because the 
wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood there. 
These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him 
very happy by giving him some of the red and yellow 
paint with which they were accustomed to adorn their 
faces. His mother, too, presented him with a piece of 
indigo. Thus he now had three colors, — red, blue, and 
yellow — and could manufacture green, by mixing the 
yellow with the blue. Our friend Ben was overjoyed, 
and doubtless showed his gratitude to the Indians by 
taking their likenesses, in the strange dresses which 
they wore, with feathers, tomahawks, and bows and 
arrows. 

But, all this time, the young artist had no paint¬ 
brushes, nor were there any to be bought, unless he 
had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However, he was 


18 8 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture 
paint-brushes for himself. With this design, he laid 
hold upon — what do you think ? why, upon a respect¬ 
able old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by the fire¬ 
side. 

“Puss,” said little Ben to the cat, “pray give me 
some of the fur from the tip of thy tail.” 

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben 
was determined to have the fur, whether she were will¬ 
ing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal for the fine 
arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was 
armed with his mother’s scissors, and very dexterously 
clipped off fur enough to make a paint-brush. This 
was of so much use to him, that he applied to Madam 
Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had 
become so thin and ragged, that she could hardly keep 
comfortable through the winter. Poor thing! she was 
forced to creep close into the chimney-corner, and eyed 
Ben with a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben con¬ 
sidered it more necessary that he should have paint¬ 
brushes, than that Puss should be warm. 

About this period, Friend West received a visit from 
Mr. Pennington, a merchant of Philadelphia, who was 
likewise a member of the Society of Friends. The 
visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it 
ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds 
with beautiful plumage, and of the wild flowers of the 
forest. Nothing of the kind was ever seen before in the 
habitation of a Quaker farmer. 

“Why, Friend West,” exclaimed the Philadelphia 
merchant, “what has possessed thee to cover thy walls 
with all these pictures ? Where on earth didst thou get 
them ? ” 

Then Friend West explained that all these pictures 
were painted by little Ben, with no better materials than 
red and yellow ochre and a piece of indigo, and with 
brushes made of the black cat’s fur. 

“Verily,” said Mr. Pennington, “the boy hath a won¬ 
derful faculty. Some of our friends might look upon 
these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin appears to 


BENJAMIN WEST 189 

have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser than 
we are.” 

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, 
and evidently considered him a wonderful boy. When 
his parents saw how much their son’s performances 
were admired, they no doubt remembered the prophecy 
of the old Quaker preacher, respecting Ben’s future 
eminence. Yet they could not understand how he was 
ever to become a very great and useful man, merely by 
making pictures. 

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington’s return 
to Philadelphia, a package arrived at Springfield, di¬ 
rected to our little friend Ben. 

“What can it possibly be?” thought Ben, when it 
was put into his hands. “ Who can have sent me such 
a great square package as this ? ” 

On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped 
it, behold! there was a paint-box, with a great many 
cakes of paint, and brushes of various sizes. It was 
the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were likewise 
several squares of canvas, such as artists use for paint¬ 
ing pictures upon, and, in addition to all these treasures, 
some beautiful engravings of landscapes. These were 
the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those 
of his own drawing. 

What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! 
At bedtime, he put the paint-box under his pillow, and 
got hardly a wink of sleep ; for, all night long, his fancy 
was painting pictures in the darkness. In the morning, 
he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the 
dinner-hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more 
than a mouthful or two of food, before he hurried back 
to the garret again. The next day, and the next, he 
was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother 
thought it time to ascertain what he was about. She 
accordingly followed him to the garret. 

On opening the door, the first object that presented 
itself to her eyes was our friend Benjamin, giving the 
last touches to a beautiful picture. He had copied por¬ 
tions of two of the engravings, and made one picture 


190 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


out of both, with such admirable skill that it was far 
more beautiful than the originals. The grass, the trees, 
the water, the sky, and the houses, were all painted in 
their proper colors. There, too, was the sunshine and 
the shadow, looking as natural as life. 

“ My dear child, thou hast done wonders ! ” cried his 
mother. 

The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And 
well might she be proud of her boy; for there were 
touches in this picture, which old artists, who had spent 
a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed 
of. Many a year afterwards, this wonderful production 
was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London. 

When Benjamin was quite a large lad, he was sent to 
school at Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival, he 
had a slight attack of fever, which confined him to his 
bed. The light, which would otherwise have disturbed 
him, was excluded from his chamber by means of closed 
wooden shutters. At first it appeared so totally dark, 
that Ben could not distinguish any object in the room. 
By degrees, however, his eyes became accustomed to 
the scanty light. 

He was lying on his back, looking up towards the 
ceiling, when suddenly he beheld the dim apparition of 
a white cow, moving slowly over his head ! Ben started, 
and rubbed his eyes, in the greatest amazement. 

“ What can this mean ? ” thought he. 

The white cow disappeared; and next came several 
pigs, who trotted along the ceiling, and vanished into 
the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike did these 
grunters look, that Ben almost seemed to hear them 
squeak. 

“Well, this is very strange ! ” said Ben to himself. 

When the people of the house came to see him, Ben¬ 
jamin told them of the marvellous circumstance which 
had occurred. But they would not believe him. 

“ Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses ! ” cried 
they. “ How is it possible that a white cow and a litter 
of pigs should be visible on the ceiling of a dark 
chamber ? ” 




BENJAMIN WEST 


191 


Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eye¬ 
sight, and was determined to search the mystery to 
the bottom. For this purpose, when he was again left 
alone, he got out of bed, and examined the window- 
shutters. He soon perceived a small chink in one of 
them, through which a ray of light found its passage 
and rested upon the ceiling. Now the science of optics 
will inform us that the pictures of the white cow and 
the pigs, and of other objects out of doors, came into 
the dark chamber through this narrow chink, and were 
painted over Benjamin’s head. It is greatly to his 
credit that he discovered the scientific principle of this 
phenomenon, and by means of it constructed a Camera 
Obscura, or Magic Lantern, out of a hollow box. This 
was of great advantage to him in drawing landscapes. 

Well; time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw 
and paint pictures, until he had now reached the age 
when it was proper that he should choose a business 
for life. His father and mother were in considerable 
perplexity about him. According to the ideas of the 
Quakers, it is not right for people to spend their lives 
in occupations that are of no real and sensible advan¬ 
tage to the world. Now, what advantage could the 
world expect from Benjamin’s pictures ? This was a 
difficult question; and, in order to set their minds at 
rest, his parents determined to consult the preachers 
and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all 
assembled in the meeting-house, and discussed the 
matter from beginning to end. 

Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It seemed 
so evident that Providence had created Benjamin to be 
a painter, and had given him abilities which would be 
thrown away in any other business, that the Quakers 
resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even 
acknowledged that the sight of a beautiful picture 
might convey instruction to the mind, and might bene¬ 
fit the heart, as much as a good book or a wise discourse. 
They therefore committed the youth to the direction of 
God, being well assured that he best knew what was his 
proper sphere of usefulness. The old men laid their 


192 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


hands upon Benjamin’s head, and gave him their bless¬ 
ing, and the women kissed him affectionately. All con¬ 
sented that he should go forth into the world, and learn 
to be a painter, by studying the best pictures of ancient 
and modern times. 

So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his 
parents, and his native woods and streams, and the 
good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians who had 
given him his first colors, — he left all the places and 
persons whom he had hitherto known, — and returned 
to them no more. He went first to Philadelphia, and 
afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many 
great people, but retained all the sobriety and simplicity 
which he had learned among the Quakers. It is related 
of him, that, when he was presented at the court of the 
Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his head, even 
while kissing the Prince’s hand. 

When he was twenty-five years old, he went to Lon¬ 
don, and established himself there as an artist. In due 
course of time, he acquired great fame by his pictures, 
and was made chief painter to King George the Third, 
and President of the Royal Academy of Arts. When 
the Quakers of Pennsylvania heard of his success, they 
felt that the prophecy of the old preacher, as to little 
Ben’s future eminence, was now accomplished. It is 
true, they shook their heads at his pictures of battle 
and bloodshed, such as the Death of Wolfe, — thinking 
that these terrible scenes should not be held up to the 
admiration of the world. 

But they approved of the great paintings in which he 
represented the miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer 
of Mankind. King George employed him to adorn a 
large and beautiful chapel at Windsor Castle, with pic¬ 
tures of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a 
magnificent picture of Christ Healing the Sick, which 
he gave to the Hospital at Philadelphia. It was ex¬ 
hibited to the public, and produced so much profit that 
the Hospital was enlarged, so as to accommodate thirty 
more patients. If Benjamin West had done no other 
good deed than this, yet it would have been enough to 


BENJAMIN WEST 


l 93 


entitle him to an honorable remembrance forever. At 
this very day, there are thirty poor people in the Hos¬ 
pital, who owe all their comforts to that same picture. 

We shall mention only a single incident more. The 
picture of Christ Healing the Sick was exhibited at the 
Royal Academy in London, where it covered a vast 
space, and displayed a multitude of figures as large as 
life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, 
hung a small and faded landscape. It was the same 
that little Ben had painted in his father’s garret, after 
receiving the paint-box and engravings from good Mr. 
Pennington. 

He lived many years in peace and honor, and died in 
1820, at the age of eighty-two. The story of his life is 
almost as wonderful as a fairy tale; for there are few 
stranger transformations than that of a little unknown 
Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most dis¬ 
tinguished English painter of his day. Let us each 
make the best use of our natural abilities, as Benjamin 
West did; and, with the blessing of Providence, we 
shall arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but 
little matter whether we acquire it or not. 


“Thank you for the story, my dear father,” said 
Edward, when it was finished. “ Do you know, that it 
seems as if I could see things without the help of my 
eyes ? While you were speaking, I have seen little Ben, 
and the baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and the 
white cow and the pigs, and kind Mr. Pennington, and 
all the good old Quakers, almost as plainly as if they 
were in this very room.” 

“It is because your attention was not disturbed by 
outward objects,” replied Mr. Temple. “ People, when 
deprived of sight, often have more vivid ideas than those 
who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will ven¬ 
ture to say that George has not attended to the story 
quite so closely.” 

« No, indeed,” said George, “but it was a very pretty 



i 9 4 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


story for all that How I should have laughed to see 
Ben making a paint-brush out of the black cat’s tail! 
I intend to try the experiment with Emily’s kitten.” 

“ Oh, no, no, George ! ” cried Emily, earnestly. “ My 
kitten cannot spare her tail.” 

Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him to 
retire to bed. When the family bade him good-night, 
he turned his face towards them, looking very loth to 
part. 

“ I shall not know when morning comes,” said he 
sorrowfully. “ And besides I want to hear your voices 
all the time; for, when nobody is speaking, it seems as 
if I were alone in a dark world! ” 

“You must have faith, my dear child,” replied his 
mother. “Faith is the soul’s eyesight; and when we 
possess it, the world is never dark nor lonely.” 


CHAPTER III 


T HE next day, Edward began to get accustomed to 
his new condition of life. Once, indeed, when his 
parents were out of the way, and only Emily was left to 
take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to 
thrust aside the bandage, and peep at the anxious face 
of his little nurse. But, in spite of the dimness of the 
chamber, the experiment caused him so much pain, that 
he felt no inclination to take another look. So, with a 
deep sigh, he resigned himself to his fate.. 

“ Emily, pray talk to me! ” said he, somewhat im¬ 
patiently. 

Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and 
did not possess that liveliness of disposition which ren¬ 
ders some children such excellent companions. She 
seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making 
many words about small matters. But the love and 
earnestness of her heart taught her how to amuse poor 
Edward, in his darkness. She put her knitting-work 
into his hands. 

“ You must learn how to knit,” said she. 

“ What! without using my eyes ? ” cried Edward. 

“ I can knit with my eyes shut,” replied Emily. 

Then, with her own little hands, she guided Edward’s 
fingers, while he set about this new occupation. So 
awkward were his first attempts, that any other little 
girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily preserved 
her gravity, and showed the utmost patience in taking 
up the innumerable stitches which he let down. In the 
course of an hour or two, his progress was quite en¬ 
couraging. 

When evening came, Edward acknowledged that the 
day had been far less wearisome than he anticipated. 
But he was glad, nevertheless, when his father and 

i95 


196 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 

mother, and George and Emily, all took their seats 
around his chair. He put out his hand to grasp each 
of their hands, and smiled with a very bright expression 
upon his lips. 

“ Now I can see you all, with my mind’s eye,” said 
he; “ and now, father, pray tell us another story.” 

So Mr. Temple began. 


Sir Isaac Newton 
B orn 1642. Died 1727 

On Christmas Day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton 
was born, at the small village of Woolsthorpe, in Eng¬ 
land. Little did his mother think, when she beheld her 
new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many 
matters which had been a mystery ever since the cre¬ 
ation of the world. 

Isaac’s father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married 
again to a clergyman, and went to reside at North 
Witham. Her son was left to the care of his good 
old grandmother, who was very kind to him, and sent 
him to school. In his early years, Isaac did not appear 
to be a very bright scholar, but was chiefly remarkable 
for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He 
had a set of little tools, and saws of various sizes, 
manufactured by himself. With the aid of these, Isaac 
contrived to make many curious articles, at which he 
worked with so much skill, that he seemed to have been 
born with a saw or chisel in his hand. 

The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the 
things which Isaac manufactured. And his old grand¬ 
mother, I suppose, was never weary of talking about him. 

“ He ’ll make a capital workman, one of these days,” 
she would probably say. “ No fear but what Isaac will 
do well in the world, and be a rich man before he dies.” 

It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipa¬ 
tions of his grandmother and the neighbors, about 
Isaac’s future life. Some of them, perhaps, fancied 
that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON 


i 97 


rosewood, or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, 
and magnificently gilded. And then, doubtless, all the 
rich people would purchase these fine things, to adorn 
their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought that 
little Isaac was destined to be an architect, and would 
build splendid mansions for the nobility and gentry, 
and churches, too, with the tallest steeples that had 
ever been seen in England. 

Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac’s grand¬ 
mother to apprentice him to a clock-maker; for, besides 
his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to have a taste for 
mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that 
profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up 
for himself, and would manufacture curious clocks, like 
those that contain sets of dancing figures, which issue 
from the dial-plate when the hour is struck; or like 
those where a ship sails across the face of the clock, 
and is seen tossing up and down on the waves, as often 
as the pendulum vibrates. 

Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that 
Isaac would devote himself to the manufacture of 
clocks; since he had already made one, of a kind 
which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set 
a-going, not by wheels and weights, like other clocks, 
but by the dropping of water. This was an object of 
great wonderment to all the people round about; and 
it must be confessed that there are few boys, or men 
either, who could contrive to tell what o’clock it is by 
means of a bowl of water. 

Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial. Thus 
his grandmother was never at a loss to know the hour; 
for the water-clock would tell it in the shade, and the 
dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial is said to be still in 
existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house 
where Isaac dwelt. If so, it must have marked the 
passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed, since 
Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous 
moments of his life; it marked the hour of his death; 
and still the sunshine creeps slowly over it, as regularly 
as when Isaac first set it up. 


198 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted 
longer than its maker; for Isaac Newton will exist 
long after the dial — yea, and long after the sun itself 
— shall have crumbled to decay. 

Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring 
knowledge by the simplest means. For instance, 
what method do you suppose he took, to find out 
the strength of the wind ? You will never guess how 
the boy could compel that unseen, inconstant, and un¬ 
governable wanderer, the wind, to tell him the measure 
of its strength. Yet nothing can be more simple. He 
jumped against the wind, and by the length of his jump 
he could calculate the force of a gentle breeze, a brisk 
gale, or a tempest. Thus, even in his boyish sports, he 
was continually searching out the secrets of philosophy. 

Not far from his grandmother’s residence there was 
a windmill, which operated on a new plan. Isaac was 
in the habit of going thither frequently, and would 
spend whole hours in examining its various parts. 
While the mill was at rest, he pried into its internal 
machinery. When its broad sails were set in motion 
by the wind, he watched the process by which the mill¬ 
stones were made to revolve, and crush the grain that 
was put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough 
knowledge of its construction, he was observed to be 
unusually busy with his tools. 

It was not long before his grandmother, and all the 
neighborhood, knew what Isaac had been about. He 
had constructed a model of the windmill. Though not 
so large, I suppose, as one of the box-traps which boys 
set to catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its 
machinery was complete. Its little sails were neatly 
made of linen, and whirled round very swiftly when the 
mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of 
wind from Isaac’s mouth, or from a pair of bellows, was 
sufficient to set the sails in motion. And, what was 
most curious, if a handful of grains of wheat were put 
into the little hopper, they would soon be converted into 
snow-white flour. 

Isaac’s playmates were enchanted with his new wind- 


SIR ISAAC NEWTON 


199 


mill. They thought that nothing so pretty, and so won¬ 
derful, had ever been seen in the whole world. 

“ But, Isaac,” said one of them, “ you have forgotten 
one thing that belongs to a mill.” 

“What is that?” asked Isaac; for he supposed that, 
from the roof of the mill to its foundation, he had for¬ 
gotten nothing. 

“ Why, where is the miller ? ” said his friend. 

“ That is true ! — I must look out for one,” said Isaac ; 
and he set himself to consider how the deficiency should 
be supplied. 

He might easily have made the miniature figure of a 
man; but then it would not have been able to move 
about, and perform the duties of a miller. As Captain 
Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of 
Lilliput, Isaac did not know that there were little men 
in the world, whose size was just suited to his windmill. 
It so happened, however, that a mouse had just been 
caught in the trap; and as no other miller could be 
found, Mr. Mouse was appointed to that important 
office. The new miller made a very respectable appear¬ 
ance in his dark gray coat. To be sure, he had not a 
very good character for honesty, and was suspected of 
sometimes stealing a portion of the grain which was 
given him to grind. But perhaps some two-legged 
millers are quite as dishonest as this small quadruped. 

As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far 
more important matters in his mind than the manufac¬ 
ture of toys, like the little windmill. All day long, if 
left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought, br 
engaged in some book of mathematics, or natural phi¬ 
losophy. At night, I think it probable, he looked up 
with reverential curiosity to the stars, and wondered 
whether they were worlds like our own, — and how 
great was their distance from the earth, — and what was 
the power that kept them in their courses. Perhaps, 
even so early in life, Isaac Newton felt a presentiment 
that he should be able, hereafter, to answer all these 
questions. 

When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother’s 


200 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


second husband being now dead, she wished her son to 
leave school, and assist her in managing the farm at 
Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to 
turn his attention to farming. But his mind was so 
bent on becoming a scholar, that his mother sent him 
back to school, and afterwards to the University of Cam¬ 
bridge. 

I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton’s 
boyhood. My story would be far too long, were I to 
mention all the splendid discoveries which he made after 
he came to be a man. He was the first that found out 
the nature of Light; for, before his day, nobody could 
tell what the sunshine was composed of. You remem¬ 
ber, I suppose, the story of an apple’s falling on his 
head, and thus leading him to discover the force of 
gravitation, which keeps the heavenly bodies in their 
courses. When he had once got hold of this idea, he 
never permitted his mind to rest, until he had searched 
out all the laws by which the planets are guided through 
the sky. This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone 
up among the stars and tracked them in their orbits. 
The boy had found out the mechanism of a windmill; 
the man explained to his fellow-men the mechanism of 
the universe. 

While making these researches he was accustomed to 
spend night after night in a lofty tower, gazing at the 
heavenly bodies through a telescope. His mind was 
lifted far above the things of this world. He may be 
said, indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in 
worlds that lie thousands and millions of miles away; 
for where the thoughts and the heart are, there is our 
true existence. 

Did you never hear the story of Newton and his little 
dog Diamond ? One day, when he was fifty years old, 
and had been hard at work more than twenty years, 
studying the theory of Light, he went out of his cham¬ 
ber, leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the 
table lay a heap of manuscript papers, containing all 
the discoveries which Newton had made during those 
twenty years. When his master was gone, up rose little 




SIR ISAAC NEWTON 


201 


Diamond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the 
lighted candle. The papers immediately caught fire. 

Just as the destruction was completed, Newton opened 
the chamber-door, and perceived that the labors of 
twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes. There 
stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief. Al¬ 
most any other man would have sentenced the dog to 
immediate death. But Newton patted him on the head 
with his usual kindness, although grief was at his heart. 

“Oh, Diamond, Diamond,” exclaimed he, “thou little 
knowest the mischief thou hast done.” 

This incident affected his health and spirits for some 
time afterwards; but, from his conduct towards the 
little dog, you may judge what was the sweetness of his 
temper. 

Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired 
great renown, and was made a Member of Parliament, 
and received the honor of knighthood from the king. 
But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and 
felt no pride in the vastness of his knowledge. All 
that he had learned only made him feel how little he 
knew in comparison to what remained to be known. 

“I seem to myself like a child,” observed he, “play¬ 
ing on the sea-shore, and picking up here and there a 
curious shell or a pretty pebble, while the boundless 
ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me.” 

At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years 
old, Sir Isaac Newton died, — or rather he ceased to live 
on earth. We may be permitted to believe that he is 
still searching out the infinite wisdom and goodness of 
the Creator, as earnestly, and with even more success, 
than while his spirit animated a mortal body. He has 
left a fame behind him, which will be as endurable as if 
his name were written in letters of light, formed by the 
stars upon the midnight sky. 


“ I love to hear about mechanical contrivances — such 
as the water-clock and the little windmill,” remarked 



202 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


George. “ I suppose if Sir Isaac Newton had only- 
thought of it, he might have found out the steam-engine, 
and railroads, and all the other famous inventions that 
have come into use since his day.” 

“Very possibly he might,” replied Mr. Temple; “and, 
no doubt, a great many people would think it more use¬ 
ful to manufacture steam-engines, than to search out 
the system of the universe. Other great astronomers, 
besides Newton, have been endowed with mechanical 
genius. There was David Rittenhouse, an American, 
— he made a perfect little water-mill, when he was only 
seven or eight years old. But this sort of ingenuity is 
but a mere trifle in comparison with the other talents of 
such men.” 

“It must have been beautiful,” said Edward, “to 
spend whole nights in a high tower, as Newton did, 
gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the meteors. 
But what would Newton have done, had he been blind ? 
or if his eyes had been no better than mine ? ” 

“Why, even then, my dear child,” observed Mrs. 
Temple, “ he would have found out some way of en¬ 
lightening his mind, and of elevating his soul. But, 
come! little Emily is waiting to bid you good-night. 
You must go to sleep, and dream of seeing all our 
faces.” 

“ But how sad it will be, when I awake! ” murmured 
Edward. 


CHAPTER IV 


I N the course of the next day, the harmony of our 
little family was disturbed by something like a 
quarrel between George and Edward. 

The former, though he loved his brother dearly, had 
found it quite too great a sacrifice of his own enjoy¬ 
ments, to spend all his play-time in a darkened cham¬ 
ber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined to be 
despotic. He felt as if his bandaged eyes entitled him 
to demand that everybody, who enjoyed the blessing of 
sight, should contribute to his comfort and amusement. 
He therefore insisted that George, instead of going out 
to play foot-ball, should join with himself and Emily in 
a game of questions and answers. 

George resolutely refused, and ran out of the house. 
He did not revisit Edward’s chamber till the evening, 
when he stole in, looking confused, yet somewhat sullen, 
and sat down beside his father’s chair. It was evident, 
by a motion of Edward’s head and a slight trembling of 
his lips, that he was aware of George’s entrance, though 
his footsteps had been almost inaudible. Emily, with 
her serious and earnest little face, looked from one to 
the other, as if she longed to be a messenger of peace 
between them. 

Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of these 
circumstances, began a story. 

Samuel Johnson 
B orn 1709. Died 1784 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Michael Johnson of Litchfield, one 
morning, “ I am very feeble and ailing to-day. You 
must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend the book¬ 
stall in the market-place there.” 

This was spoken, above a hundred years ago, by an 
203 


204 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


elderly man, who had once been a thriving bookseller at 
Litchfield, in England. Being now in reduced circum¬ 
stances, he was forced to go, every market-day, and sell 
books at a stall, in the neighboring village of Uttoxeter. 

His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great boy 
of very singular aspect. He had an intelligent face; 
but it was seamed and distorted by a scrofulous humor, 
which affected his eyes so badly, that sometimes he was 
almost blind. Owing to the same cause, his head would 
often shake with a tremulous motion, as if he were 
afflicted with the palsy. When Sam was an infant, the 
famous Queen Anne had tried to cure him of this 
disease, by laying her royal hands upon his head. But 
though the touch of a king or queen was supposed to 
be a certain remedy for scrofula, it produced no good 
effect upon Sam Johnson. 

At the time which we speak of, the poor lad was not 
very well dressed, and wore shoes from which his toes 
peeped out; for his old father had barely the means of 
supporting his wife and children. But, poor as the 
family were, young Sam Johnson had as much pride as 
any nobleman’s son in England. The fact was, he felt 
conscious of uncommon sense and ability, which, in his 
own opinion, entitled him to great respect from the 
world. Perhaps he would have been glad, if grown 
people had treated him as reverentially as his school¬ 
fellows did. Three of them were accustomed to come 
for him, every morning; and while he sat upon the 
back of one, the two others supported him on each 
side, and thus he rode to school in triumph! 

Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could 
not bear the idea of standing all day in Uttoxeter market, 
offering books to the rude and ignorant country people. 
Doubtless he felt the more reluctant on account of his 
shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and the 
tremulous motion of his head. 

When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted, and 
made an indistinct grumbling in his throat; then he 
looked his old father in the face, and answered him 
loudly and deliberately. 


SAMUEL JOHNSON 


205 


“ Sir,” said he, “ I will not go to Uttoxeter market! ” 

Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad’s obsti¬ 
nacy ever since his birth; and while Sam was younger, 
the old gentleman had probably used the rod, whenever 
occasion seemed to require. But he was now too feeble, 
and too much out of spirits, to contend with this stub¬ 
born and violent-tempered boy. He therefore gave up 
the point at once, and prepared to go to Uttoxeter 
himself. 

“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat 
and staff, “ if for the sake of your foolish pride, you can 
suffer your poor sick father to stand all day in the noise 
and confusion of the market, when he ought to be in his 
bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, 
Sam, when I am dead and gone! ” 

So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, 
but certainly with sorrow in his heart) set forth towards 
Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble, melancholy Michael 
Johnson! How sad a thing it was, that he should be 
forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of 
an ungrateful son, who was too proud to do anything 
for his father, or his mother, or himself! Sam looked 
after Mr. Johnson, with a sullen countenance, till he was 
out of sight. 

But when the old man’s figure, as he went stooping 
along the street, was no more to be seen, the boy’s heart 
began to smite him. He had a vivid imagination, and 
it tormented him with the image of his father, standing 
in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books 
to the noisy crowd around him. Sam seemed to behold 
him, arranging his literary merchandise upon the stall in 
such a way as was best calculated to attract notice. Here 
was Addison’s Spectator, a long row of little volumes; 
here was Pope’s translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; 
here were Dryden’s poems, or those of Prior. Here, like¬ 
wise, were Gulliver’s Travels, and a variety of little gilt- 
covered children’s books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the 
Giant-queller, Mother Goose’s Melodies, and others 
which our great-grandparents used to read in their 
childhood. And here were sermons for the pious, and 


20 6 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry 
and some dismal ones, for the country people to sing. 

Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, 
pamphlets, and ballads, now to the rude yeomen, who 
perhaps could not read a word, — now to the country 
squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and 
foxes, —now to the children, who chose to spend their 
coppers for sugar-plums or gingerbread, rather than for 
picture-books. And if Mr. Johnson should sell a book 
to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an hour’s 
talk to get a profit of only sixpence. 

“ My poor father ! ” thought Sam to himself. “ How 
his head will ache, and how heavy his heart will be! 
I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade 
• me! ” 

Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy 
about the house. She did not know of what had passed 
between Mr. Johnson and Sam. 

“ Mother,” said he, “ did you think father seemed 
very ill to-day ? ” 

“Yes, Sam,” answered his mother, turning with a 
flushed face from the fire, where she was cooking their 
scanty dinner. “Your father did look very ill, and it 
is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his stead. 
You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, 
to do something for your poor father, who has done so 
much for you.” 

The lad made no reply. But again his imagination 
set to work, and conjured up another picture of poor 
Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot sun¬ 
shine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, 
and disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were 
drawn to him. “ Had this old man no son,” the people 
would say among themselves, “ who might have taken 
his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his 
bed ? ” And perhaps — but this was a terrible thought 
for Sam! — perhaps his father would faint away, and 
fall down in the market-place, with his gray hair in the 
dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a 
corpse. And there would be the bystanders gazing 


SAMUEL JOHNSON 207 

earnestly at Mr. Johnson, and whispering: “Is he 
dead ? Is he dead ? ” 

And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself, “ Is 
he dead ? ” 

“ Oh, I have been a cruel son! ” thought he, within 
his own heart “ God forgive me ! God forgive me ! ” 

But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not 
truly penitent. Had he been so, he would have hastened 
away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and have fallen 
at his father’s feet, even in the midst of the crowded 
market-place. There he would have confessed his 
fault, and besought Mr. Johnson to go home, and 
leave the rest of the day’s work to him. But such was 
Sam’s pride and natural stubbornness, that he could not 
bring himself to this humiliation. Yet he ought to have 
done so, for his own sake, and for his father’s sake, and 
for God’s sake. 

After sunset old Michael Johnson came slowly home, 
and sat down in his customary chair. He said nothing 
to Sam; nor do I know that a single word ever passed 
between them on the subject of the son’s disobedience. 
In a few years, his father died, and left Sam to fight 
his way through the world by himself. It would make 
our story much too long, were I to tell you even a few 
of the remarkable events of Sam’s life. Moreover, 
there is the less need of this, because many books 
have been written about that poor boy, and the fame 
that he acquired, and all that he did or talked of doing, 
after he came to be a man. 

But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his 
boyhood upward, until the latest day of his life, he 
never forgot the story of Uttoxeter market. Often 
when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or 
master of an Academy at Edial, or a writer for the 
London booksellers, — in all his poverty and toil, and 
in all his success,—while he was walking the streets 
without a shilling to buy food, or when the greatest 
men of England were proud to feast him at their table, 
— still that heavy and remorseful thought came back 
to him : — “I was cruel to my poor father in his illness ! ” 


208 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


Many and many a time, awake or in his dreams, he 
seemed to see old Michael Johnson, standing in the 
dust and confusion of the market-place, and pressing 
his withered hand to his forehead as if it ached. 

Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such 
a thought as this to bear us company through life. 


Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was 
longer than usual, Mr. Temple here made a short pause. 
He perceived that Emily was in tears, and Edward 
turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker, with 
an air of great earnestness and interest. As for George, 
he had withdrawn into the dusky shadow behind his 
father’s chair. 





CHAPTER V 


I N a few moments Mr. Temple resumed his story, as 
follows: — 


Samuel Johnson 

CONTINUED 

Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since 
young Sam Johnson had shown himself so hard-hearted 
towards his father. It was now market-day in the 
village of Uttoxeter. 

In the street of the village you might see cattle-dealers 
with cows and oxen for sale, and pig-drovers, with herds 
of squeaking swine, and farmers, with cart-loads of 
cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other produce of the 
soil. Now and then a farmer’s red-faced wife trotted 
along on horseback, with butter and cheese in two large 
panniers. The people of the village, with country 
squires and other visitors from the neighborhood, 
walked hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling, 
and making just such a bustle as their fathers and 
grandfathers had made half a century before. 

In one part of the street, there was a puppet-show, 
with a ridiculous Merry-Andrew, who kept both grown 
people and children in a roar of laughter. On the op¬ 
posite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter, with 
ivy climbing up its walls, and partly obscuring its Gothic 
windows. 

There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient 
church ; and the hands on the dial-plate had now almost 
reached the hour of noon. At this busiest hour of the 
market, a strange old gentleman was seen making his 
way among the crowd. He was very tall and bulky, 
and wore a brown coat and small-clothes, with black 

209 


210 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On his head was 
a three-cornered hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig 
thrust itself out, all in disorder. The old gentleman 
elbowed the people aside, and forced his way through 
the midst of them with a singular kind of gait, rolling 
his body hither and thither, so that he needed twice as 
much room as any other person there. 

“ Make way, sir! ” he would cry out, in a loud, harsh 
voice, when somebody happened to interrupt his prog¬ 
ress. — “ Sir, you intrude your person into the public 
thoroughfare! ” 

“ What a queer fellow this is ! ” muttered the people 
among themselves, hardly knowing whether to laugh or 
to be angry. 

But, when they looked into the venerable stranger’s 
face, not the most thoughtless among them dared to 
offer him the least impertinence. Though his features 
were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and though 
his eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was something 
of authority and wisdom in his look, which impressed 
them all with awe. So they stood aside to let him pass; 
and the old gentleman made his way across the market¬ 
place, and paused near the corner of the ivy-mantled 
church. Just as he reached it, the clock struck twelve. 

On the very spot of ground where the stranger now 
stood, some aged people remembered that old Michael 
Johnson had formerly kept his bookstall. The little 
children, who had once bought picture-books of him, 
were grandfathers now. 

“Yes; here is the very spot!” muttered the old 
gentleman to himself. 

There this unknown personage took his stand, and 
removed the three-cornered hat from his head. It was 
the busiest hour of the day. What with the hum of 
human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of 
pigs, and the laughter caused by the Merry-Andrew, 
the market-place was in very great confusion. But the 
stranger seemed not to notice it, any more than if the 
silence of a desert were around him. He was wrapt in 
his own thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed 


SAMUEL JOHNSON 


21 1 


brow to Heaven, as if in prayer; sometimes he bent his 
head, as if an insupportable weight of sorrow were upon 
him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect, that there 
was a motion of his head, and an almost continual tremor 
throughout his frame, with singular twitchings and con¬ 
tortions of his features. 

The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but 
he seemed not to feel its fervor. A dark cloud swept 
across the sky, and rain-drops pattered into the market¬ 
place ; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The 
people began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman, 
with superstitious fear and wonder. Who could he be ? 
Whence did he come ? Wherefore was he standing 
bare-headed in the market-place ? Even the school-boys 
left the Merry-Andrew, and came to gaze, with wide- 
open eyes, at this tall, strange-looking old man. 

There was a cattle-drover in the village, who had 
recently made a journey to the Smithfield market, in 
London. No sooner had this man thrust his way through 
the throng, and taken a look at the unknown personage, 
than he whispered to one of his acquaintances: — 

“ I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know 
who this old gentleman is ? ” 

“Ay, that I would,” replied neighbor Hutchins; “for 
a queerer chap I never saw in my life! Somehow, it 
makes me feel small to look at him. He’s more than a 
common man.” 

“You may well say so,” answered the cattle-drover. 
“Why, that’s the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson, who, 
they say, is the greatest and learnedest man in England. 
I saw him in London streets, walking with one Mr. 
Boswell.” 

Yes ; the poor boy — the friendless Sam — with whom 
we began our story, had become the famous Doctor 
Samuel Johnson! He was universally acknowledged 
as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. 
He had given shape and permanence to his native lan¬ 
guage, by his Dictionary. Thousands upon thousands 
of people had read his Idler, his Rambler, and his Ras- 
selas. Noble and wealthy men, and beautiful ladies, 


212 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


deemed it their highest privilege to be his companions. 
Even the king of Great Britain had sought his acquaint¬ 
ance, and told him what an honor he considered it, that 
such a man had been born in his dominions. He was 
now at the summit of literary renown. 

But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remem¬ 
brance which had tormented him through life. Never, 
never, had he forgotten his father’s sorrowful and up¬ 
braiding look. Never — though the old man’s troubles 
had been over so many years — had he forgiven himself 
for inflicting such a pang upon his heart. And now, in 
his old age, he had come hither to do penance, by stand¬ 
ing at noon-day in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on the 
very spot where Michael Johnson had once kept his 
bookstall. The aged and illustrious man had done what 
the poor boy refused to do. By thus expressing his deep 
repentance and humiliation of heart, he hoped to gain 
peace of conscience and the forgiveness of God. 

My dear children, if you have grieved — I will not 
say, yoqr parents — but if you have grieved the heart 
of any human being who has a claim upon your love, 
then think of Samuel Johnson’s penance! Will it not 
be better to redeem the error now, than to endure the 
agony of remorse for fifty years ? Would you not rather 
say to a brother — “I have erred! Forgive me!” — 
than perhaps to go hereafter, and shed bitter tears upon 
his grave ? 


Hardly was the story concluded, when George hastily 
arose, and Edward likewise, stretching forth his hands 
into the darkness that surrounded him, to find his 
brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness; each 
besought the other’s forgiveness; and having done so, 
the trouble of their hearts vanished away like a dream. 

“ I am glad ! I am so glad ! ” said Emily, in a low, 
earnest voice. “Now I shall sleep quietly to-night.” 

“ My sweet child,” thought Mrs. Temple, as she 
kissed her, “ mayest thou never know how much strife 
there is on earth! It would cost thee many a night’s 
rest.” 




CHAPTER VI 


A BOUT this period, Mr. Temple found it necessary 
to take a journey, which interrupted the series of 
Biographical Stories for several evenings. In the inter¬ 
val, Edward practised various methods of employing and 
amusing his mind. 

Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which 
he had formerly seen, until the intensity of his recollec¬ 
tion seemed to restore him the gift of sight, and place 
everything anew before his eyes. Sometimes he repeated 
verses of poetry, which he did not know to be in his 
memory, until he found them there, just at the time of 
need. Sometimes he attempted to solve arithmetical 
questions, which had perplexed him while at school. 

Then, with his mother’s assistance, he learned the 
letters of the string-alphabet, which is used in some of 
the Institutions for the Blind, in Europe. When one of 
his friends gave him a leaf of Saint Mark’s Gospel, 
printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read 
it by passing his fingers over the letters as blind chil¬ 
dren do. 

His brother George was now very kind, and spent so 
much time in the darkened chamber, that Edward often 
insisted upon his going out to play. George told him all 
about the affairs at school, and related many amusing 
incidents that happened among his comrades, and in¬ 
formed him what sports were now in fashion, and whose 
kite soared the highest, and whose little ship sailed 
fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she repeated 
stories which she had learned from a new book, called 
The Flower People, in which the snow-drops, the vio¬ 
lets, the columbines, the roses, and all that lovely tribe 
are represented as telling their secrets to a little girl. 
The flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Ed- 

213 


214 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


ward almost fancied that he could behold their bloom 
and smell their fragrant breath. 

Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Ed¬ 
ward’s confinement passed not unhappily. In due time, 
his father returned; and the next evening, when the 
family were assembled, he began a story. 

“ I must first observe, children,” said he, “ that some 
writers deny the truth of the incident which I am about 
to relate to you. There certainly is but little evidence 
in favor of it. Other respectable writers, however, tell 
it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an interesting story, 
and has an excellent moral.” 

So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days 
of 


Oliver Cromwell 
B orn 1599. Died 1658 

Not long after King James the First took the place 
of Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England, there 
lived an English knight at a place called Hinchinbrooke. 
His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his life, 
I suppose, pretty much like other English knights and 
squires in those days, hunting hares and foxes, and 
drinking large quantities of ale and wine. The old 
house in which he dwelt had beeil occupied by his an¬ 
cestors before him for a good many years. In it there 
was a great hall, hung round with coats of arms, and 
helmets, cuirasses and swords which his forefathers had 
used in battle, and with horns of deer and tails of foxes, 
which they or Sir Oliver himself had killed in the chase. 

This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been 
called Oliver, after himself, but who was generally known 
in the family by the name of little Noll. His father was a 
younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was often sent 
to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome 
little fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, 
and always running into some danger or other, from 
which he seemed to escape only by miracle. 

Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange 


OLIVER CROMWELL 


21 5 


accident had befallen him. A huge ape, which was kept 
in the family, snatched up little Noll in his forepaws and 
clambered with him to the roof of the house. There 
this ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, 
as if he had done the most praiseworthy thing imagi¬ 
nable. Fortunately, however, he brought the child safe 
down again; and the event was afterwards considered 
an omen that Noll would reach a very elevated station 
in the world. 

One morning, when Noll was five or six years old, a 
royal messenger arrived at Hinchinbrooke, with tidings 
that King James was coming to dine with Sir Oliver 
Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a 
very great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, 
squires, guards, and yeomen, who waited on the king, 
were to be feasted as well as himself; and more provi¬ 
sions would be eaten, and more wine drunk, in that one 
day, than generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver 
expressed much thankfulness for the king’s intended 
visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the best 
preparations in their power. So a great fire was kindled 
in the kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke 
which poured out of the chimney, that boiling, baking, 
stewing, roasting, and frying were going on merrily. 

By and by the sound of trumpets was heard, approach¬ 
ing nearer and nearer; and a heavy, old-fashioned 
coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove up to 
the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, stood 
at the gate to receive the king. His Majesty was 
dressed in a suit of green, not very new; he had a 
feather in his hat, and a triple ruff round his neck; and 
over his shoulder was slung a hunting-horn, instead of 
a sword. Altogether, he had not the most dignified 
aspect in the world; but the spectators gazed at him as 
if there was something superhuman and divine in his 
person. They even shaded their eyes with their hands, 
as if they were dazzled by the glory of his countenance. 

“How are ye, man?” cried King James, speaking in 
a Scotch accent; for Scotland was his native country. 
“ By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad to see ye! ” 


216 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


The good knight thanked the king, at the same time 
kneeling down, while his Majesty alighted. When 
King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir 
Oliver’s attention to a little boy, who had come with 
him in the coach. He was six or seven years old, and 
wore a hat and feather, and was more richly dressed 
than the king himself. Though by no means an ill- 
looking child, he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his 
cheeks were rather pale, as if he had been kept moping 
within doors, instead of being sent out to play in the sun 
and wind. 

“ I have brought my son Charlie to see ye,” said the 
king. “ I hope, Sir Oliver, ye have a son of your own, 
to be his playmate.” 

Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the 
little prince, whom one of the attendants had now taken 
out of the coach. It was wonderful to see how all the 
spectators, even the aged men, with their gray beards, 
humbled themselves before this child. They bent their 
bodies till their beards almost swept the dust. They 
looked as if they were ready to kneel down and worship 
him. 

The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not 
a soul had dared to contradict him; everybody around 
him had acted as if he were a superior being; so that, 
of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of himself. 
He naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great 
Britain and all its inhabitants had been created solely 
for his benefit and amusement. This was a sad mistake ; 
and it cost him dear enough after he had ascended his 
father’s throne. 

“ What a noble little prince he is! ” exclaimed Sir 
Oliver, lifting his hands in admiration. “ No, please 
your Majesty, I have no son to be the playmate of his 
Royal Highness; but there is a nephew of mine, some¬ 
where about the house. He is near the prince’s age, and 
will be but too happy to wait upon his Royal Highness.” 

“ Send for him, man ! send for him ! ” said the king. 

But, as it happened, there was no need of sending 
for Master Noll. While King James was speaking, a 


OLIVER CROMWELL 


217 


rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust himself 
through the throng of courtiers and attendants, and 
greeted the prince with a broad stare. His doublet and 
hose (which had been put on new and clean in honor of 
the king’s visit) were already soiled and torn with the 
rough play in which he had spent the morning. He 
looked no more abashed than if King James were his 
uncle and the prince one of his customary playfellows. 

This was little Noll himself. 

“ Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew,” said Sir 
Oliver, somewhat ashamed of Noll’s appearance and 
demeanor. “ Oliver, make your obeisance to the king’s 
Majesty! ” 

The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the 
king; for, in those days, children were taught to pay 
reverence to their elders. King James, who prided him¬ 
self greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few ques¬ 
tions in the Latin Grammar, and then introduced him 
to his son. The little prince, in a very grave and digni¬ 
fied manner, extended his hand, not for Noll to shake, 
but that he might kneel down and kiss it. 

“Nephew,” said Sir Oliver, “pay your duty to the 
prince.” 

“I owe him no duty,” cried Noll, thrusting aside the 
prince’s hand, with a rude laugh. “ Why should I kiss 
that boy’s hand ? ” 

All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and 
Sir Oliver the most of all. But the king laughed 
heartily, saying that little Noll had a stubborn English 
spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn betimes 
what sort of people he was to rule over. 

So King James and his train entered the house; and 
the prince, with Noll and some other children, was sent 
to play in a separate room while his Majesty was at 
dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; 
for boys, whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, 
all like play, and are pleased with one another’s society. 
What games they diverted themselves with, I cannot 
tell. Perhaps they played at ball — perhaps at blind- 
man’s buff —perhaps at leap-frog — perhaps at prison- 


2l8 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


bars. Such games have been in use for hundreds of 
years; and princes as well as poor children have spent 
some of their happiest hours in playing at them. 

Meanwhile, King James and his nobles were feasting 
with Sir Oliver in the great hall. The king sat in a 
gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of a long table. 
Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was 
with the deepest reverence. If the attendants offered 
him wine, or the various delicacies of the festival, it was 
upon their bended knees. You would have thought, by 
these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a super¬ 
natural being; only he seemed to have quite as much 
need of those vulgar matters, food and drink, as any 
other person at the table. But fate had ordained that 
good King James should not finish his dinner in peace. 

All of a sudden, there arose a terrible uproar in the 
room where the children were at play. Angry shouts 
and shrill cries of alarm were mixed up together; while 
the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, trying 
to restore order among the children. The king, and 
everybody else at the table, looked aghast; for perhaps 
the tumult made them think that a general rebellion had 
broken out. 

“ Mercy on us ! ” muttered Sir Oliver; “ that grace¬ 
less nephew of mine is in some mischief or other. The 
naughty little whelp ! ” 

Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the 
matter, followed by many of the guests, and the king 
among them. They all crowded to the door of the 
play-room. 

On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, 
with his rich dress all torn, and covered with the dust 
of the floor. His royal blood was streaming from his 
nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a mix¬ 
ture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled 
expression, as if he could not understand how any mor¬ 
tal boy should dare to give him a beating. As for Noll, 
there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a lion, looking 
as if he were ready to fight not only the prince, but the 
king and kingdom too. 


OLIVER CROMWELL 


219 

“You little villain!” cried his uncle. “What have 
you been about ? Down on your knees, this instant, and 
ask the prince’s pardon. How dare you lay hands on 
the king’s Majesty’s royal son ? ” 

“He struck me first,” grumbled the valiant little 
Noll; “and I’ve only given him his due.” 

Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in aston¬ 
ishment and horror. No punishment seemed severe 
enough for this wicked little varlet, who had dared to 
resent a blow from the king’s own son. Some of the 
courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent pris¬ 
oner to the Tower of London, and brought to trial for 
high treason. Others, in their great zeal for the king’s 
service, were about to lay hands on the boy, and chastise 
him in the royal presence. 

But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal 
of sagacity, ordered them to desist. 

“ Thou art a bold boy,” said he, looking fixedly at 
little Noll; “and, if thou live to be a man, my son 
Charlie would do wisely to be friends with thee.” 

“ I never will! ” cried the little prince, stamping his foot. 

“ Peace, Charlie, peace ! ” said the king; then address¬ 
ing Sir Oliver and the attendants, “ Harm not the urchin ; 
for he has taught my son a good lesson, if Heaven do 
but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter should he 
be tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Eng¬ 
lishmen, let him remember little Noll Cromwell, and his 
own bloody nose ! ” 

So the king finished his dinner and departed; and, 
for many a long year, the childish quarrel between 
Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten. The 
prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life and have 
met a more peaceful death had he remembered that 
quarrel, and the moral which his father drew from it. 
But, when old King James was dead, and Charles sat 
upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a 
man, and that his meanest subjects were men as well as 
he. He wished to have the property and lives of the 
people of England entirely at his own disposal. But 
the Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him, 


220 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


and beat him in many battles, and pulled him down from 
his throne. 

Throughout this war between the king and nobles on 
one side, and the people of England on the other, there 
was a famous leader, who did more towards the ruin of 
royal authority, than all the rest. The contest seemed 
like a wrestling-match between King Charles and this 
strong man. And the king was overthrown. 

When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, 
that warlike leader sat in the judgment-hall. Many 
judges were present besides himself; but he alone had 
the power to save King Charles^ or to doom him to the 
scaffold. After sentence was pronounced, this victori¬ 
ous general was entreated by his own children, on their 
knees, to rescue his Majesty from death. 

“ No ! ” said he sternly. “ Better that one man should 
perish, than that the whole country should be ruined for 
his sake. It is resolved that he shall die! ” 

When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaf¬ 
fold, his great enemy stood at a window of the royal 
palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor victim of 
pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he 
laid his head upon the block. He looked on, with a 
steadfast gaze, while a black-veiled executioner lifted 
the fatal axe, and smote off that anointed head at a 
single blow. 

“ It is a righteous deed,” perhaps he said to himself. 
“ Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights.” 

At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the 
coffin, in a gloomy chamber, the general entered, light¬ 
ing himself with a torch. Its gleam showed that he was 
now growing old ; his visage was scarred with the many 
battles in which he had led the van; his brow was 
wrinkled with care, and with the continual exercise of 
stern authority. Probably there was not a single trait, 
either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little 
Noll, who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. 
Yet this was he! 

He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his 
torch to fall upon the dead monarch’s face. Then, 



OLIVER CROMWELL 


221 


probably, his mind went back over all the marvellous 
events that had brought the hereditary king of Eng¬ 
land to this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, 
an humble individual, to the possession of kingly power. 
He was a king, though without the empty title, or the 
glittering crown. 

“Why was it,” said Cromwell to himself — or might 
have said — as he gazed at the pale features in the coffin, 
— “ Why was it, that this great king fell, and that poor 
Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm ? ” 

And, indeed, why was it ? 

King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the 
same as when a child, he disdained to feel that every 
human creature was his brother. He deemed himself 
a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were 
created only for a king to rule over. And Cromwell 
rose, because, in spite of his many faults, he mainly 
fought for the rights and freedom of his fellow-men; 
and therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their 
strength to him. 


“ Dear father, how I should hate to be a king! ” ex¬ 
claimed Edward. 

“ And would you like to be a Cromwell ? ” inquired 
his father. 

“ I should like it well,” replied George, “only I would 
not have put the poor old king to death. I would have 
sent him out of the kingdom, or perhaps have allowed 
him to live in a small house, near the gate of the royal 
palace. It was too severe, to cut off his head.” 

“Kings are in such an unfortunate position,” said 
Mr. Temple, “that they must either be almost deified 
by their subjects, or else be dethroned and beheaded. 
In either case it is a pitiable lot.” 

“ Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king! ” said 
Edward. 

“Well, my dear Edward,” observed his mother, with 
a smile, “lam glad you are convinced that your own 
lot is not the hardest in the world.” 



CHAPTER VII 

I T was a pleasant sight (for those who had eyes) to 
see how patiently the blinded little boy now submitted 
to what he had at first deemed an intolerable calamity. 
The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort to 
depend on the enjoyment of any single sense. Though 
he has made the world so very beautiful, yet it is pos¬ 
sible to be happy without ever beholding the blue sky, 
or the green and flowery earth, or the kind faces of 
those whom we love. Thus it appears that all the ex¬ 
ternal beauty of the universe is a free gift from God, 
over and above what is necessary to our comfort. How 
grateful, then, should we be to that Divine Benevolence, 
which showers even superfluous bounties upon us ! 

One truth, therefore, which Edward’s blindness had 
taught him, was, that his mind and soul could dispense 
with the assistance of his eyes. Doubtless, however, he 
would have found this lesson far more difficult to learn, 
had it not been for the affection of those around him. 
His parents, and George and Emily, aided him to bear 
his misfortune; if possible, they would have lent him 
their own eyes. And this, too, was a good lesson for 
him. It taught him how dependent on one another God 
has ordained us to be; insomuch that all the necessities 
of mankind should incite them to mutual love. 

So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the 
world, better than he ever did before. And he felt 
grateful towards his father for spending the evenings 
in telling him stories — more grateful, probably, than 
any of my little readers will feel towards me for so care¬ 
fully writing those same stories down. 

“ Come, dear father,” said he, the next evening, “ now 
tell us all about some other little boy, who was destined 
to be a famous man.” 


222 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 


22 J 


“ How would you like a story of a Boston boy ? ” 
asked his father. 

“ Oh, pray let us have it! ” cried George, eagerly. 
“ It will be all the better if he has been to our schools, 
and has coasted on the Common, and sailed boats in 
the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted with him then.” 

“ Well, then,” said Mr. Temple, “ I will introduce you 
to a Boston boy, whom all the world became acquainted 
with, after he grew to be a man.” 

The story was as follows : — 

Benjamin Franklin 
B orn 1706. Died 1790 

In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy used to 
be seen in the streets of Boston, who was known among 
his school-fellows and playmates by the name of Ben 
Franklin. Ben was born in 1706; so that he was now 
about ten years old. His father, who had come over 
from England, was a soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, 
and resided in Milk Street, not far from the old South 
Church. 

Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a brighter 
one when at play with his comrades. He had some 
remarkable qualities which always seemed to give him 
the lead, whether at sport or in more serious matters. 
I might tell you a number of amusing anecdotes about 
him. You are acquainted, I suppose, with his famous 
story of the Whistle, and how he bought it with a 
whole pocketful of coppers, and afterwards repented 
of his bargain. But Ben had grown a great boy since 
those days, and had gained wisdom by experience; for 
it was one of his peculiarities, that no incident ever 
happened to him without teaching him some valuable 
lesson. Thus he generally profited more by his mis¬ 
fortunes, than many people do by the most favorable 
events that could befall them. 

Ben’s face was already pretty well known to the in¬ 
habitants of Boston. The selectmen, and other people 
of note, often used to visit his father, for the sake of 


224 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


talking about the affairs of the town or province. Mr. 
Franklin was considered a person of great wisdom and 
integrity, and was respected by all who knew him, al¬ 
though he supported his family by the humble trade of 
boiling soap and making tallow-candles. 

While his father and the visitors were holding deep 
consultations about public affairs, little Ben would sit 
on his stool in a corner, listening with the greatest 
interest, as if he understood every word. Indeed, his 
features were so full of intelligence, that there could 
be but little doubt, not only that he understood what 
was said, but that he could have expressed some very 
sagacious opinions out of his own mind. But, in those 
days, boys were expected to be silent in the presence 
of their elders. However, Ben Franklin was looked 
upon as a very promising lad, who would talk and act 
wisely by and by. 

“ Neighbor Franklin,” his father’s friends would some¬ 
times say, “ you ought to send this boy to college and 
make a minister of him.” 

“ I have often thought of it,” his father would reply; 
“and my brother Benjamin promises to give him a 
great many volumes of manuscript sermons, in case he 
should be educated for the church. But I have a large 
family to support, and cannot afford the expense.” 

In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide 
bread for his family, that, when the boy was ten years 
old, it became necessary to take him from school. Ben 
was then employed in cutting candle-wicks into equal 
lengths, and filling the moulds with tallow; and many 
families in Boston spent their evenings by the light of 
the candles which he had helped to make. Thus, you 
see, in his early days, as well as in his manhood, his 
labors contributed to throw light upon dark matters. 

Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to 
keep company with his former school-fellows. He and 
the other boys were very fond of fishing, and spent 
many of their leisure hours on the margin of the mill¬ 
pond, catching flounders, perch, eels, and tom-cod, which 
came up thither with the tide. The place where they 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 


225 


fished is now, probably, covered with stone pavements 
and brick buildings, and thronged with people, and with 
vehicles of all kinds. But, at that period, it was a 
marshy spot on the outskirts of the town, where gulls 
flitted and screamed overhead, and salt meadow-grass 
grew under foot. 

On the edge of the water there was a deep bed of 
clay, in which the boys were forced to stand, while they 
caught their fish. Here they dabbled in mud and mire 
like a flock of ducks. 

“ This is very uncomfortable,” said Ben Franklin one 
day to his comrades, while they were standing mid-leg 
deep in the quagmire. 

“ So it is,” said the other boys. “ What a pity we 
have no better place to stand ! ” 

If it had not been for Ben nothing more would have 
been done or said about the matter. But it was not in 
his nature to be sensible of an inconvenience, without 
using his best efforts to find a remedy. So, as he and 
his comrades were returning from the water-side, Ben 
suddenly threw down his string of fish with a very de¬ 
termined air: — 

“ Boys,” cried he, “ I have thought of a scheme, 
which will be greatly for our benefit, and for the public 
benefit!” 

It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little 
chap — this rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy — talking 
about schemes for the public benefit! Nevertheless, 
his companions were ready to listen, being assured that 
Ben’s scheme, whatever it was, would be well worth 
their attention. They remembered how sagaciously he 
had conducted all their enterprises, ever since he had 
been old enough to wear small-clothes. 

They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance of 
sailing across the mill-pond by lying flat on his back, in 
the water, and allowing himself to be drawn along by a 
paper-kite. If Ben could do that, he might certainly do 
anything. 

“What is your scheme, Ben? — what is it?” cried 
they all. 


226 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


It so happened that they had now come to a spot of 
ground where a new house was to be built. Scattered 
round about lay a great many large stones, which were 
to be used for the cellar and foundation. Ben mounted 
upon the highest of these stones, so that he might speak 
with the more authority. 

“ You know, lads,” said he, “what a plague it is to be 
forced to stand in the quagmire yonder — over shoes 
and stockings (if we wear any) in mud and water. See ! 
I am bedaubed to the knees of my small-clothes, and 
you are all in the same pickle. Unless we can find 
some remedy for this evil, our fishing business must be 
entirely given up. And, surely, this would be a terrible 
misfortune! ” 

“ That it would ! — that it would ! ” said his comrades, 
sorrowfully. 

“Now I propose,” continued Master Benjamin, “that 
we build a wharf, for the purpose of carrying on our 
fisheries. You see these stones. The workmen mean 
to use them for the underpinning of a house; but that 
would be for only one man’s advantage. My plan is to 
take these same stones, and carry them to the edge of 
the water and build a wharf with them. This will not 
only enable us to carry on the fishing business with 
comfort, and to better advantage, but it will likewise be 
a great convenience to boats passing up and down the 
stream. Thus, instead of one man, fifty, or a hundred, 
or a thousand, besides ourselves, may be benefited by 
these stones. What say you, lads ? — shall we build the 
wharf ? ” 

Ben’s proposal was received with one of those uproari¬ 
ous shouts, wherewith boys usually express their delight 
at whatever completely suits their views. Nobody 
thought of questioning the right and justice of building 
a wharf, with stones that belonged to another person. 

“ Hurrah, hurrah ! ” shouted they. “ Let’s set about 
it!” 

It was agreed that they should all be on the spot, that 
evening, and commence their grand public enterprise by 
moonlight. Accordingly, at the appointed time, the 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 


227 

whole gang of youthful laborers assembled, and eagerly 
began to remove the stones. They had not calculated 
how much toil would be requisite, in this important part 
of their undertaking. The very first stone which they 
laid hold of proved so heavy, that it almost seemed to 
be fastened to the ground. Nothing but Ben Franklin’s 
cheerful and resolute spirit could have induced them to 
persevere. 

Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the enter¬ 
prise. By his mechanical genius, he contrived methods 
to lighten the labor of transporting the stones; so that 
one boy, under his directions, would perform as much 
as half a dozen, if left to themselves. Whenever their 
spirits flagged, he had some joke ready, which seemed 
to renew their strength by setting them all into a roar 
of laughter. And when, after an hour or two of hard 
work, the stones were transported to the water-side, Ben 
Franklin was the engineer to superintend the construc¬ 
tion of the wharf. 

The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great 
deal of labor by their multitude, though the individual 
strength of each could have accomplished but little. 
Finally, just as the moon sank below the horizon, the 
great work was finished. 

“Now, boys,” cried Ben, “let’s give three cheers, 
and go home to bed. To-morrow, we may catch fish at 
our ease! ” “ Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! ” shouted his 

comrades. 

Then they all went home, in such an ecstasy of 
delight that they could hardly get a wink of sleep. 


The story was not yet finished; but George’s impa¬ 
tience caused him to interrupt it. 

“ How I wish that I could have helped to build that 
wharf!” exclaimed he. “It must have been glorious 
fun. Ben Franklin forever, say I! ” 

“It was a very pretty piece of work,” said Mr. 
Temple. “But wait till you hear the end of the 
story.” 



228 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


“ Father,” inquired Edward, “ whereabouts in Boston 
was the mill-pond, on which Ben built his wharf ? ” 

“I do not exactly know,” answered Mr. Temple; 
“ but I suppose it to have been on the northern verge 
of the town, in the vicinity of what are now called 
Merrimack and Charlestown streets. That thronged 
portion of the city was once a marsh. Some of it, in 
fact, was covered with water.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


A S the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. 

Temple proceeded to relate what consequences 
ensued from the building of Ben Franklin’s wharf. 

Benjamin Franklin 
continued 

In the morning, when the early sunbeams were gleam¬ 
ing on the steeples and roofs of the town, and gilding 
the water that surrounded it, the masons came, rubbing 
their eyes, to begin their work at the foundation of the 
new house. But, on reaching the spot, they rubbed 
their eyes so much the harder. What had become of 
their heap of stones ? 

“ Why, Sam,” said one to another, in great perplexity, 
“ here ’s been some witchcraft at work, while we were 
asleep. The stones must have flown away through the 
air! ” 

“ More likely they have been stolen ! ” answered Sam. 
“ But who on earth would think of stealing a heap 
of stones ? ” cried a third. “ Could a man carry them 
away in his pocket ? ” 

The master-mason, who was a gruff kind of man, 
stood scratching his head, and said nothing, at first. 
But, looking carefully on the ground, he discerned in¬ 
numerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes, and 
some barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, he 
saw that they formed a beaten path towards the water¬ 
side. 

“ Ah, I see what the mischief is,” said he, nodding his 
head. “ Those little rascals, the boys ! they have stolen 
our stones to build a wharf with ! ” 

The masons immediately went to examine the new 
229 


230 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


structure. And, to say the truth, it was well worth look¬ 
ing at, so neatly, and with such admirable skill, had it 
been planned and finished. The stones were put to¬ 
gether so securely, that there was no danger of their 
being loosened by the tide, however swiftly it might 
sweep along. There was a broad and safe platform to 
stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast their 
lines into deep water, and draw up fish in abundance. 
Indeed, it almost seemed as if Ben and his comrades 
might be forgiven for taking the stones, because they 
had done their job in such a workmanlike manner. 

“ The chaps that built this wharf understood their 
business pretty well,” said one of the masons. “ I 
should not be ashamed of such a piece of work myself.” 

But the master-mason did not seem to enjoy the joke. 
He was one of those unreasonable people, who care a 
great deal more for their own rights and privileges, than 
for the convenience of all the rest of the world. 

“ Sam,” said he, more gruffly than usual, “ go call a 
constable.” 

So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on 
foot to discover the perpetrators of the theft. In the 
course of the day, warrants were issued, with the signa¬ 
ture of a Justice of the Peace, to take the bodies of 
Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed persons, who 
had stolen a heap of stones. If the owner of the stolen 
property had not been more merciful than the master- 
mason, it might have gone hard with our friend Benjamin 
and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for them, the gen¬ 
tleman had a respect for Ben’s father, and, moreover, 
was amused with the spirit of the whole affair. He 
therefore let the culprits off pretty easily. 

But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor 
boys had to go through another trial, and receive sen¬ 
tence, and suffer execution too, from their own fathers. 
Many a rod, I grieve to say, was worn to the stump, on 
that unlucky night. 

As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than of 
his father’s disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I have 
mentioned before, was a sagacious man, and also an in- 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 


231 


flexibly upright one. He had read much, for a person 
in his rank of life, and had pondered upon the ways of 
the world, until he had gained more wisdom than a 
whole library of books could have taught him. Ben had 
a greater reverence for his father, than for any other 
person in the world, as well on account of his spotless in¬ 
tegrity, as of his practical sense and deep views of things. 

Consequently, after being released from the clutches 
of the law, Ben came into his father’s presence, with no 
small perturbation of mind. 

“ Benjamin, come hither,” began Mr. Franklin, in his 
customary solemn and weighty tone. 

The boy approached, and stood before his father’s 
chair, waiting reverently to hear what judgment this 
good man would pass upon his late offence. He felt 
that now the right and wrong of the whole matter would 
be made to appear. 

“Benjamin,” said his father, “what could induce you 
to take property which did not belong to you ?■'’ 

“ Why, father,” replied Ben, hanging his head, at first, 
but then lifting his eyes to Mr. Franklin’s face, “if it 
had been merely for my own benefit, I never should 
have dreamed of it. But I knew that the wharf would 
be a public convenience. If the owner of the stones 
should build a house with them, nobody will enjoy any 
advantage except himself. Now, I made use of them in 
a way that was for the advantage of many persons. I 
thought it right to aim at doing good to the greatest 
number.” 

“ My son,” said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, “ so far as it 
was in your power, you have done a greater harm to the 
public, than to the owner of the stones.” 

“ How can that be, father ? ” asked Ben. 

“Because,” answered his father, “in building your 
wharf with stolen materials, you have committed a 
moral wrong. There is no more terrible mistake, than 
to violate what is eternally right, for the sake of a seem¬ 
ing expediency. Those who act upon such a principle 
do the utmost in their power to destroy all that is good 
in the world.” 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


232 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” said Benjamin. 

“No act,” continued Mr. Franklin, “can possibly be 
for the benefit of the public generally, which involves 
injustice to any individual. It would be easy to prove 
this by examples. But, indeed, can we suppose that our 
all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the 
affairs of the world, that a wrong act should be the true 
method of attaining a right end ? It is impious to think 
so! And I do verily believe, Benjamin, that almost all 
the public and private misery of mankind arises from a 
neglect of this great truth — that evil can produce only 
evil — that good ends must be wrought out by good 
means.” 

“ I will never forget it again,” said Benjamin, bowing 
his head. 

“Remember,” concluded his father, “that, whenever 
we vary from the highest rule of right, just so far we do 
an injury to the world. It may seem otherwise for the 
moment; but, both in Time and in Eternity, it will be 
found so.” 

To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot 
this conversation with his father; and we have reason 
to suppose that, in most of his public and private 
career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which 
that good and wise man had then taught him. 

After the great event of building the wharf, Ben con¬ 
tinued to cut wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about 
two years. But, as he had no love for that occupation, 
his father often took him to see various artisans at their 
work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer. 
Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the 
knowledge of which afterwards proved very useful to 
him. But he seemed much inclined to go to sea. In 
order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his 
taste for letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his 
elder brother, who had lately set up a printing-office in 
Boston. 

Here he had many opportunities of reading new books, 
and of hearing instructive conversation. He exercised 
himself so successfully in writing composition, that, when 


BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 


2 33 


no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, he became 
a contributor to his brother’s newspaper. Ben was also 
a versifier, if not a poet. He made two doleful ballads, 
— one about the shipwreck of Captain Worthilake, and 
the other about the pirate Black Beard, who, not long 
before, infested the American seas. 

When Ben’s verses were printed, his brother sent him 
to sell them to the town’s-people, wet from the press. 
“ Buy my ballads! ” shouted Benjamin, as he trudged 
through the streets, with a basketful on his arm. 
“ Who ’ll buy a ballad about Black Beard ? A penny 
apiece ! a penny apiece ! who ’ll buy my ballads ? ” 

If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed 
ballads could be discovered now, it would be worth more 
than its weight in gold. 

In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood 
and youth, until, on account of some disagreement with 
his brother, he left his native town and went to Phila¬ 
delphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless and 
hungry young man, and bought three-pence worth of 
bread to satisfy his appetite. Not knowing where else 
to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house, sat down, 
and fell fast asleep. He has not told us whether his 
slumbers were visited by any dreams. But it would 
have been a strange dream, indeed, and an incredible 
one, that should have foretold how great a man he was 
destined to become, and how much he would be hon¬ 
ored in that very city, where he was now friendless and 
unknown. 

So here we finish our story of the childhood of Ben¬ 
jamin Franklin. One of these days, if you would know 
what he was in his manhood, you must read his own 
works, and the history of American Independence. 


“ Do let us hear a little more of him ! ” said Edward; 
“ not that I admire him so much as many other charac¬ 
ters; but he interests me, because he was a Yankee 
boy.” 

“ My dear son,” replied Mr. Temple, “ it would require 



234 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


a whole volume of talk, to tell you all that is worth 
knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There is a very 
pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst of a 
thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the lightning 
from the clouds, and proving that it was the same thing 
as electricity. His whole life would be an interesting 
story, if we had time to tell it.” 

“ But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so 
famous,” said George. “ I have seen his portrait a 
great many times. There is a wooden bust of him in 
one of our streets, and marble ones, I suppose, in some 
other places. And towns, and ships of war, and steam¬ 
boats, and banks, and academies, and children, are often 
named after Franklin. Why should he have grown so 
very famous ? ” 

“Your question is a reasonable one, George,” an¬ 
swered his father. “ I doubt whether Franklin’s philo¬ 
sophical discoveries, important as they were, or even his 
vast political services, would have given him all the fame 
which he acquired. It appears to me that Poor Rich¬ 
ard’s Almanac did more than anything else towards 
making him familiarly known to the public. As the 
writer of those proverbs, which Poor Richard was sup¬ 
posed to utter, Franklin became the counsellor and 
household friend of almost every family in America. 
Thus, it was the humblest of all his labors that has done 
the most for his fame.” 

“ I have read some of those proverbs,” remarked 
Edward ; “ but I do not like them. They are all about 
getting money, or saving it.” 

“Well,” said his father, “they were suited to the con¬ 
dition of the country; and their effect, upon the whole, 
has doubtless been good, — although they teach men 
but a very small portion of their duties.” 


CHAPTER IX 


H ITHERTO, Mr. Temple’s narratives had all been 
about boys and men. But, the next evening, he 
bethought himself that the quiet little Emily would per¬ 
haps be glad to hear the story of a child of her own sex. 
He therefore resolved to narrate the youthful adventures 
of Christina of Sweden, who began to be a Queen at the 
age of no more than six years. If we have any little 
girls among our readers, they must not suppose that 
Christina is set before them as a pattern of what they 
ought to be. On the contrary, the tale of her life is 
chiefly profitable as showing the evil effects of a wrong 
education, which caused this daughter of a king to be 
both useless and unhappy. 

Here follows the story. 

Queen Christina 
Born 1626. Died 1689 

In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of 
Sweden, there was born, in 1626, a little princess. The 
king, her father, gave her the name of Christina, in 
memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in 
love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus; and he 
was also called the Lion of the North, because he had 
gained greater fame in war than any other prince or 
general then alive. With this valiant king for their 
commander, the Swedes had made themselves terrible 
to the Emperor of Germany and to the King of France, 
and were looked upon as the chief defence of the 
Protestant religion. 

The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child. 
To confess the truth, she was remarkably plain. The 
queen, her mother, did not love her so much as she 

23s 


236 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 

ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina’s want 
of beauty, and, also, because both the king and queen 
had wished for a son, who might have gained as great 
renown in battle as his father had. 

The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of 
the infant princess. When Christina was very young, 
she was taken violently sick. Gustavus Adolphus, who 
was several hundred miles from Stockholm, travelled 
night and day, and never rested until he held the poor 
child in his arms. On her recovery, he made a solemn 
festival, in order to show his joy to the people of Sweden, 
and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event, 
he took his daughter with him in all the journeys which 
he made throughout his kingdom. 

Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little 
girl. When she was two years old, the king and her¬ 
self, in the course of a journey, came to the strong 
fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers 
clad in steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. 
There were likewise great cannons, pointing their black 
mouths at Gustavus and little Christina, and ready to 
belch out their smoke and thunder; for whenever a 
king enters a fortress, it is customary to receive him 
with a royal salute of artillery. 

But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and his 
daughter, as they were about to enter the gateway. 

“ May it please your Majesty,” said he, taking off his 
steel cap, and bowing profoundly, “ I fear that if we 
receive you with a salute of cannon, the little princess 
will be frightened almost to death.” 

Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was 
indeed apprehensive that the thunder of so many cannon 
might perhaps throw her into convulsions. He had 
almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter the 
fortress quietly, as common people might have done, 
without all this head-splitting racket. But no; this 
would not do. 

“ Let them fire,” said he, waving his hand. “ Christina 
is a soldier’s daughter, and must learn to bear the noise 
of cannon.” 


QUEEN CHRISTINA 


2 37 


So the captain uttered the word of command, and 
immediately there was a terrible peal of thunder from 
the cannon, and such a gush of smoke, that it enveloped 
the whole fortress in its volumes. But, amid all the din 
and confusion, Christina was seen clapping her little 
hands, and laughing in an ecstasy of delight. Probably 
nothing ever pleased her father so much as to see that 
his daughter promised to be fearless as himself. He 
determined to educate her exactly as if she had been a 
boy, and to teach her all the knowledge needful to the 
ruler of a kingdom and the commander of an army. 

But Gustavus should have remembered that Provi¬ 
dence had created her to be a woman, and that it was not 
for him to make a man of her. 

However, the king derived great happiness from his 
beloved Christina. It must have been a pleasant sight 
to see the powerful monarch of Sweden playing in some 
magnificent hall of the palace, with his merry little girl. 
Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested 
upon his shoulders. He forgot that the wise Chancellor 
Oxenstiern was waiting to consult with him how to ren¬ 
der Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He forgot 
/ that the Emperor of Germany and the King of France 
were plotting together how they might pull him down 
from his throne. 

Yes; Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares and 
pompous irksomeness of a royal life, and was as happy, 
while playing with his child, as the humblest peasant in 
the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance 
along the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, 
with his upright, martial figure, his war-worn visage, and 
commanding aspect, and the small, round form of Chris¬ 
tina, with her rosy face of childish merriment! Her 
little fingers were clasped in her father’s hand, which 
had held the leading-staff in many famous victories. His 
crown and sceptre were her playthings. She could dis¬ 
arm Gustavus of his sword, which was so terrible to the 
princes of Europe. 

But alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy 
Christina’s society. When she was four years old, Gus- 


2j8 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


tavus was summoned to take command of the allied 
armies of Germany, which were fighting against the 
Emperor. His greatest affliction was the necessity of 
parting with his child; but people in such high stations 
have but little opportunity for domestic happiness. He 
called an assembly of the Senators of Sweden, and con¬ 
fided Christina to their care, saying that each one of 
them must be a father to her, if he himself should fall 
in battle. 

At the moment of his departure, Christina ran towards 
him and began to address him with a speech which some¬ 
body had taught her for the occasion. Gustavus was 
busied with thoughts about the affairs of the kingdom, 
so that he did not immediately attend to the childish 
voice of his little girl. Christina, who did not love to 
be unnoticed, immediately stopped short, and pulled him 
by the coat. 

“Father/’ said she, “why do not you listen to my 
speech ? ” 

In a moment, the king forgot everything, except that 
he was parting with what he loved best in all the world. 
He caught the child in his arms, pressed her to his bosom, 
and burst into tears. Yes; though he was a brave man, 
and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast, and 
though armies were waiting for him to lead them to battle, 
— still, his heart melted within him and he wept. Chris¬ 
tina, too, was so afflicted that her attendants began to 
fear that she would actually die of grief. But probably 
she was soon comforted; for children seldom remember 
their parents quite so faithfully as their parents remem¬ 
ber them. 

For two years more, Christina remained in the palace 
at Stockholm. The queen, her mother, had accom¬ 
panied Gustavus to the wars. The child, therefore, was 
left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the 
kingdom. But these wise men knew better how to man¬ 
age the affairs of state, than how to govern and educate 
a little girl, so as to render her a good and happy 
woman. 

When two years had passed away, tidings were 


QUEEN CHRISTINA 


2 39 


brought to Stockholm, which filled everybody with 
triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes had 
won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But alas ! the war¬ 
like king of Sweden, the Lion of the North, the father 
of our little Christina, — had been slain at the foot of a 
great stone, which still marks the spot of that hero’s 
death. 

Soon after this sad event, a General Assembly, or 
Congress, consisting of deputations from the nobles, the 
clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of Sweden was 
summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the pur¬ 
pose of declaring little Christina to be queen of Sweden, 
and giving her the crown and sceptre of her deceased 
father. Silence being proclaimed, the Chancellor Oxen- 
stiern arose. 

“ We desire to know,” said he, “ whether the people 
of Sweden will take the daughter of our dead king, Gus- 
tavus Adolphus, to be their Queen.” 

When the Chancellor had spoken, an old man with 
white hair and in coarse apparel stood up in the midst 
of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars Larrson by 
name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a 
farm. 

“ Who is this daughter of Gustavus ? ” asked the old 
man. “ We do not know her. Let her be shown to us.” 

Then Christina was brought into the hall and placed 
before the old peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see 
a child — a little girl of six years old — offered to the 
Swedes as their ruler, instead of the brave king, her 
father, who had led them to victory so many times. 
Could her baby fingers wield a sword in war ? Could 
her childish mind govern the nation wisely in peace ? 

But the Swedes do not appear to have asked them¬ 
selves these questions. Old Lars Larrson took Chris¬ 
tina up in his arms, and gazed earnestly into her face. 
He had known the great Gustavus well; and his heart 
was touched, when he saw the likeness which the little 
girl bore to that heroic monarch. 

“ Yes,” cried he, with the tears gushing down his fur¬ 
rowed cheeks, “ this is truly the daughter of our Gus- 


240 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


tavus ! Here is her father’s brow ! — here is his piercing 
eye! She is his very picture. This child shall be our 
queen! ” 

Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the rever¬ 
end clergy, and the burghers, and the peasants, knelt 
down at the child’s feet, and kissed her hand. 

“ Long live Christina, queen of Sweden! ” shouted they. 

Even after she was a woman grown, Christina remem¬ 
bered the pleasure which she felt in seeing all these men 
at her feet, and hearing them acknowledge her as their 
supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn that 
power does not insure happiness. As yet, however, she 
had not any real power. All the public business, it is 
true, was transacted in her name; but the kingdom was 
governed by a number of the most experienced states¬ 
men, who were called a Regency. 

But it was considered necessary that the little queen 
should be present at the public ceremonies, and should 
behave just as if she were in reality the ruler of the 
nation. When she was seven years of age, some am¬ 
bassadors from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swed¬ 
ish court. They wore long beards, and were clad in a 
strange fashion, with furs, and other outlandish orna¬ 
ments ; and as they were inhabitants of a half-civilized 
country, they did not behave like other people. The 
Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid that the young queen 
would burst out a-laughing, at the first sight of these 
queer ambassadors; or else that she would be fright¬ 
ened by their unusual aspect. 

“Why should I be frightened ? ” said the little queen ; 
— “ and do you suppose that I have no better manners 
than to laugh ? Only tell me how I must behave; and 
I will do it.” 

Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were intro¬ 
duced ; and Christina received them, and answered their 
speeches, with as much dignity and propriety as if she 
had been a grown woman. 

All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you 
must not suppose that she was left to act as she pleased. 
She had a preceptor, named John Mathias, who was a 


QUEEN CHRISTINA 


241 


very learned man, and capable of instructing her in all 
the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach 
her the delicate graces and gentle virtues of a woman. 
She was surrounded almost entirely by men, and had 
learned to despise the society of her own sex. At the 
age of nine years, she was separated from her mother, 
whom the Swedes did not consider a proper person to 
be entrusted with the charge of her. No little girl, who 
sits by a New England fireside, has cause to envy Chris¬ 
tina, in the royal palace at Stockholm. 

Yet she made great progress in her studies. She 
learned to read the classical authors of Greece and 
Rome, and became a great admirer of the heroes and 
poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises, she 
could ride on horseback as well as any man in her king¬ 
dom. She was fond of hunting, and could shoot at a 
mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was the only 
feminine accomplishment with which she had any 
acquaintance. 

She was so restless in her disposition, that none of 
her attendants were sure of a moment’s quiet, neither 
day nor night. She grew up, I am sorry to say, a very 
unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, and, in 
short, unfit to make those around her happy, or to be 
happy herself. Let every little girl, who has been 
taught self-control, and a due regard for the rights of 
others, thank Heaven that she has had better instruc¬ 
tion than this poor little queen of Sweden. 

At the age of eighteen, Christina was declared free to 
govern the kingdom by herself, without the aid of a 
regency. At this period of her life, she was a young 
woman of striking aspect, a good figure and intelligent 
face, but very strangely dressed. She wore a short 
habit of gray cloth, with a man’s vest over it, and a 
black scarf around her neck, but no jewels, nor orna¬ 
ments of any kind. 

Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appear¬ 
ance, there was something in her air and manner that 
proclaimed her as the ruler of a kingdom. Her eyes, it 
is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old Gen- 


242 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


eral Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of 
Sweden to tremble in battle, actually trembled himself, 
when he encountered the eyes of the queen. But it 
would have been better for Christina if she could have 
made people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks, 
instead of affrighting them by such terrible glances. 

And now I have told you almost all that is amusing 
or instructive, in the childhood of Christina. Only a few 
more words need be said about her; for it is neither 
pleasant nor profitable to think of many things that she 
did, after she grew to be a woman. 

When she had worn the crown a few years, she began 
to consider it beneath her dignity to be called a queen, 
because the name implied that she belonged to the 
weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be pro¬ 
claimed King, thus declaring to the world that she 
despised her own sex, and was desirous of being ranked 
among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her age, 
Christina grew tired of royalty, and resolved to be 
neither a king nor a queen any longer. She took the 
crown from her head, with her own hands, and ceased 
to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not greatly 
regret her abdication; for she had governed them ill, 
and had taken much of their property to supply her ex¬ 
travagance. 

Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Chris¬ 
tina left Sweden and travelled over many of the coun¬ 
tries of Europe. Everywhere she was received with 
great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the 
renowned Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful 
queen. Perhaps you would like to know something 
about her personal appearance, in the latter part of her 
life. She is described as wearing a man’s vest, a short 
gray petticoat, embroidered with gold and silver, and a 
black wig, which was thrust awry upon her head. She 
wore no gloves, and so seldom washed her hands that 
nobody could tell what had been their original color. 
In this strange dress, and, I suppose, without washing 
her hands or face, she visited the magnificent court of 
Louis the Fourteenth. 


QUEEN CHRISTINA 


2 4 3 


She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, 
nor regretted her death, nor planted a single flower upon 
her grave. Happy are the little girls of America, who 
are brought up quietly and tenderly, at the domestic 
hearth, and thus become gentle and delicate women ! 
May none of them ever lose the loveliness of their sex, 
by receiving such an education as that of Queen Chris¬ 
tina ! 


Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very reverse 
of little Christina. She seemed shocked at the idea of 
such a bold and masculine character as has been de¬ 
scribed in the foregoing story. 

“I never could have loved her,” whispered she to Mrs. 
Temple; and then she added, with that love of personal 
neatness, which generally accompanies purity of heart, 
— “ It troubles me to think of her unclean hands! ” 

“ Christina was a sad specimen of womankind indeed,” 
said Mrs. Temple. “ But it is very possible for a woman 
to have a strong mind, and to be fitted for the active 
business of life, without losing any of her natural deli¬ 
cacy. Perhaps some time or other, Mr. Temple will tell 
you a story of such a woman.” 

It was now time for Edward to be left to repose. His 
brother George shook him heartily by the hand, and 
hoped, as he had hoped twenty times before, that to¬ 
morrow or the next day Ned’s eyes would be strong 
enough to look the sun right in the face. 

“ Thank you, George,” replied Edward, smiling ; “but 
I am not half so impatient as at first. If my bodily eye¬ 
sight were as good as yours, perhaps I could not see 
things so distinctly with my mind’s eye. But now there 
is a light within which shows me the little Quaker artist, 
Ben West, and Isaac Newton with his windmill, and stub¬ 
born Sam Johnson, and stout Noll Cromwell, and shrewd 
Ben Franklin, and little Queen Christina, with the Swedes 
kneeling at her feet. It seems as if I really saw these 
personages face to face. So I can bear the darkness 
outside of me pretty well.” 



2 44 


BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES 


When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her 
mouth and kissed him as her farewell for the night. 

“ Ah, I forgot! ” said Edward, with a sigh. “ I can¬ 
not see any of your faces. What would it signify to see 
all the famous people in the world, if I must be blind to 
the faces that I love ? ” 

“You must try to see us with your heart, my dear 
child,” said his mother. 

Edward went to bed, somewhat dispirited, but quickly 
falling asleep was visited with such a pleasant dream of 
the sunshine and of his dearest friends, that he felt the 
happier for it all the next day. And we hope to find 
him still happy when we meet again. 







































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